


don't let the blue sky fade

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Friends, Everyone Needs A Hug, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Mission Gone Wrong, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Team Bonding, Team as Family, They're not yet friends, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but they haven't hurt each other yet either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: It was supposed to be a mission without surprises, but then a building collapses on top of them and traps them underground.Tony is hurt but doesn't tell anyone. Steve just wants Tony to give a damn for once. And Clint, who cannot run away from their bickering since he broke his leg, just hopes they do not kill each other before they get him out of there.(- Since the End is almost upon us, why not return to the beginning of the Avengers, when everything was still mostly beautiful and they haven't yet hurt each other so much. Simpler times!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I completely forgot I wrote this. It's finished but it's been a while, so I'm not entirely sure what happens down the road, but when I read the first part last night, I didn't think it was too bad. So, while I'm going back to studying (three weeks, folks!) I'll leave you this.  
> Enjoy!

When Steve opens his eyes, the world has turned into rubble and dust before him. He must have blackened out, because the last thing he remembers is the harsh light of the lab he was scouting, walking past fallen enemies and looking for a way to completely shut this operation down. These people are not Hydra, but Steve has a problem with all scientists trying to improve the human race for their personal gain. There was a rumbling somewhere beneath him, tremors running up his legs. Then Natasha sounded a warning in his ears, but it was already too late and he was falling.

He is lying on his back, covered in what feels like debris. The building he was just standing in is gone. Instead, all around him is darkness.

The air is thick, drawing up memories of his asthma-ridden childhood and the brittle years on battlefields, making him want to cough even while his body is unable to, too hurt and exhausted. His ribcage cannot expand, pressed down by concrete, so all he manages is shallow breaths, sending spikes of pain through his chest.

Forcing his mind to calm down, Steve lies very still. The rumbling has subsided and the whole world is still, but objectively he knows he cannot give in to the building panic but has to dig himself free. He has to be careful if he does not want to be crushed after all. Steve is oftentimes described as headstrong, rushing into any situation without care, but he has learned to stop and think things through. Sometimes.

Slowly, testing whether he has broken any bones, Steve mobilizes himself. He makes minuscule movements at first to see whether he is trapped. When nothing happens, he carefully works himself out from under the debris, gladder than ever for his enhanced strength. Shifting into a sitting position, he allows himself a moment to just breathe.

The space around him is dark, completely walled off by the collapsed building. He gives his eyes time to adjust and still he cannot see more than vague shapes. Ignoring the churning of his stomach, he then taps against his earpiece, hoping it is still working.

“Hawkeye, Widow, do you copy?” he asks, his voice raspy, “Iron Man? I’ve been caught in the collapse, but the situation has stabilized.” He hopes so, at least, not daring to move away from his position yet. “Does anyone copy?”

There is no answer, but Steve has come to trust Stark’s tech enough to not give up hope just yet. Before he can continue to try, however, a groan interrupts him, coming not from the ear piece but from somewhere to his right. Steve immediately straightens. He is not alone but there is no way to tell whether he is trapped with one of his people or an enemy.

“Who’s there?” he asks, keeping his voice low as to not alert possible other people nearby. The serum is already working on his scratches and bruises and there is nothing thoroughly wrong with him, so he could fight if necessary, but he would prefer to not upset the unstable building any more than necessary and fights in close quarters tend to get messy where supersoldiers are involved.

“Cap,” a man calls back, sounding as choked as Steve feels, but he recognizes Clint nonetheless.

“I’m coming.” Steve rushes to his feet before he remembers to take it slow. But Clint does not sound so good, like he is in pain. And since the assassin is trained to suppress such things, Steve is naturally worried.

Making his way through the debris is tricky, even if the serum allows him to see more than someone not enhanced would, so it takes far too long to reach Clint, and when he does he stops short at the sight.

Clint is half-buried beneath a large piece of concrete, covered in blood-caked dust.

“Status?” Steve asks, reverting to the familiar system of reports to keep his emotions down, which threaten to boil up at seeing a friend hurt.

“Got crushed,” Clint coughs, trying his hand at humour, which falls hopelessly flat.

Crouching down, Steve busies himself with pushing some of the smaller pieces of debris off Clint. “Think you can get up?”

“Don’t think so. I can’t free my legs.”

Steve refrains from asking whether Clint can still _feel_ them at least, because he is all but buried beneath the giant boulder and it does not look good. But there will be time for that later.

“Try the radio,” he orders Clint as he begins to stem against the piece of concrete. “Mine’s dead.”

“I doubt –” Clint starts but breaks off with a hiss of pain. It is not clear whether he doubts his own radio will work or that Steve will have success with his struggle to get him free.

It turns out that neither is a success.

“Guess we’ll have to wait until someone finds us,” Clint says weakly. His eyes are closed, and he tries not to sound worried but he is trapped and in pain.

Steve, on the other hand, is not prone to giving up so easily. “I’ll find something to stem against it.”

“Don’t bring the rest of the building down on us.” By then, Clint is only mumbling anymore, and Steve fears he is going to fall unconscious. He has to decide whether to stay and make sure that Clint stays with him, or go to work on getting them out.

He scans their surroundings as best as he can, fearing that there is only more rubble. That is when he catches sight of a weak light, some distance away. It is the kind of gentle blue that has become so familiar over the past months since the Avengers have come together. Hope springs in his chest. If that is the arc reactor, then Tony is down here, and with the suit at hand, getting out is not as hopeless anymore as it was a moment ago.

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes to pain. This, in itself, is not too unusual. Decades of hangovers and reckless working binges, of dodging punches and, lately, diving right for them, made sure that he knows the limits of his body very well. He knows the simmering pain left behind by alcohol, and the protesting muscle spasms after falling asleep on his desk. He knows the feeling of broken bones shifting underneath his skin and bruises blooming like a badge. When he comes to, he feels all of that mixed in together but more than that too. It is a piercing, crushing kind of pain, swallowing him whole.

He is still in the suit. The thought brings him all of a minute of peace before he notices that it does not respond to his commands. It feels snug around his skin, embedding him like the shield it is supposed to be, but it is now like dead weight, pinning him to the ground. No amount of straining his muscles against the metal gets even the slightest movement out of it, like it has locked down and him in it.

It takes effort to calm his mind but he is somewhat used to the feeling, and panicking will only make things worse. First of all, he needs to assess the damage, then he can ponder what he will do about it.

Tony opens his eyes – and would have recoiled were he able to move. All he sees is darkness. No vague forms, not the familiar blue of the arc reactor, not even the annotations of the HUD. Just black.

This time, he cannot hold back the panic flooding his system. If he has damaged his eyes, lost his sight – it would mean nothing short of the end of his work, of building with his own two hands, of being Iron Man. Of seeing any of his friends again.

Heart pounding at a pace that is causing irregular off-beats, Tony opens his mouth but does not know what to say. Or to whom, since JARVIS is suspiciously silent. Pressure builds at the back of his throat, causing Tony to clench his jaw. He does not want to find out what his screaming sounds like in the veritable coffin his suit has turned into.

But it is not a coffin just yet. There are emergency hatches to manually open the suit. Tony has always been fond of fail-safes; he just has to move past the panic and the pain to make use of them.

Suddenly, with a great mechanical sigh, the suit comes back to life. Tony thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful than the light of the arc reactor spreading out in front of him, no matter that it appears dimmed. His limbs lurch a bit as energy reaches the metal joints, and his breathing gets marginally easier. The HUD comes last, exploding into a frantic picture of blinking red and blaring alarms.

“The suit has sustained severe damage,” JARVIS says in Tony’s ears, sounding mildly distressed but apparently not at all affected by having been offline for several long moments in which Tony was almost convinced he was lost.

A rough chuckle tears itself from Tony’s throat that has pain shooting through his body. He ends up coughing, tasting blood in his mouth.

“Way to state the obvious, J,” he rasps, marvelling at the extensive list of damages. He has never been so glad the read _critical_ as often as he is now, though, since it is undeniable proof that he has not lost his ability to see. Almost reluctantly, he orders, “Turn the alarms off.”

Much of the sound and red vanishes, pushed to where he can just see it out of the corner of his eye, as if there is any chance that he will forget about his current situation. He is left with near darkness again.

“J?” he prompts, causing JARVIS to activate night vision, thus giving form to Tony’s fears.

He is underground somewhere. There are no windows, not even any real walls. Just crumbled heaps of concrete and rubble crowding in around him. It feels like a cave, and even if it does not have a metal door keeping him in, Tony feels like throwing up.

Closing his eyes again, he concentrates on his breathing. It hurts. The suit has a rather impressive dent on his right side, so he might have broken some ribs. His right shoulder feels quite mangled too. Luxated perhaps, or broken. He is sure that he is bleeding too. Nothing that is not fixable. The dizziness worries him a bit. Could be blood loss, but chances are high that he has a concussion.

Tony does not want to think about being trapped underground, hurting and in a compromised suit, but he is sure he cannot move just yet, so he can just as well go ahead and assess the rest of the damage.

The actual crash is hazy in his memory, but he remembers an explosion and Natasha calling out for Clint, after which Tony turned around to look for the archer. Then something heavy hit his head, hard enough to push him off course. He lost control, briefly but enough to send him careening into a wall. Which, apparently had come down not long after.

Tentatively, Tony brings up the myriad of alarms on the HUD again and turns his attention to the suit. He does not need to put a definite name to his own wounds so soon, especially since there will not be much he can do about it anyway until he gets out of here.

“Energy levels are low,” JARVIS pipes up helpfully, “Left thruster is down, right repulsor at 20%. The chest plate is severely dented and pierced –”

“Got it,” Tony cuts off his AI. Piercing damage is never a good thing, less so when located over the torso. Maybe his breathing problems stem from something worse than lack of space. “Why is the energy low?” Tony prefers to deal with technical problems. He has always been good at fixing those.

Energy is the most important thing for now. He can do without flying and even shooting, can manage to breathe shallowly for a while, but without enough energy to power the suit, he has to leave it behind altogether, and he would like to avoid that while being still underground and wounded.

“The casing of the arc reactor was damaged,” JARVIS explains in an almost clinical monotone as if trying not to sound worried, “then there was a second explosion and we were hit again.”

JARVIS keeps talking but Tony concentrates on calming his heartbeat, keeps his mind fixed on the way JARVIS said _we_ , which has to be more important, surely, than the very real possibility of the suit dying on him. Or he in the suit because of his heart finally giving up the fight against the shrapnel.

Sudden movement on his side helps to push the rising panic aside; he has always been able to compartmentalize like that. He squashes down the urge to snap into an offensive position, because there is still blocks of concrete covering him and he does not want to aggravate his wounds before he knows what is going on. It also feels like his mind is tapping in and out of consciousness for whole seconds at a time until he remembers to breathe. Light vibrations travel up his left arm, a clear indicator that JARVIS has begun powering up the repulsor, but in a way that does not draw immediate attention to it.

“Iron Man,” a voice cuts through the haziness in his head, helps to ground him further in reality, although the sudden noise hurts him as much as the alarms did. “Iron Man, report.”

The voice sounds worried. Tony is sure that is why it takes him so long to recognize it belonging to Steve. A worried Captain America is a thoroughly unpleasant image, even more so considering their surroundings.

“Tony,” Steve calls again.

Finally, it registers that Tony is required to answer. He is lying completely still, afraid of moving, which will only invite more pain. His breathing, too, is not visible on the outside. For all Steve knows, he could be out of it, which explains the worry at least partly. It might not be a personal thing but not one wants to be stuck in the darkness alone.

There is more movement, the sound of rocks falling, then something shaking his shoulder – another moment he has missed. When Steve calls his name again, Tony decides he has to do something about it before he loses his consciousness completely.

With a gasp, he fills his lungs with enough air to speak, ignoring the pain shooting through his right side.  

“I’m awake,” he exclaims, wincing at the ringing in his ears. “You don’t have to shout.”

Steve’s face, illuminated by the arc reactor’s dim light, changes from worried to something more familiar. Disappointment, disgust; it is always the same with them. Or him, really. Howard used to look at Tony like that too, accompanied by slurs and the anger borne from expectations continually unmet. It almost seems like Howard is hovering over Steve’s shoulder, but when Tony blinks there is nothing but more darkness.

“You’re –” Steve leans slightly away from him, causing his face to become blurred. “Were you ignoring me?”

That is what happens when Tony lets his guard down, no matter how involuntarily.

“I was assessing the damage done to the suit,” he answers stiffly, wondering how he became that person everyone always assumes the worst of. It is a carefully constructed thing, but sometimes Tony is astonished at how good even his own designs work.

“You can do that later,” Steve all but orders, settling securely back into the mind-set of someone used to pushing the needs of his own body back to a more convenient time. Which usually means never. That, at least, is something Tony can match. “Clint needs help and he doesn’t have a nifty metal armour to protect him.”

No one seems to have told Steve that falling out of the sky in said metal armour can do more damage than good, especially since Tony has invested more time and effort in firing power and shielding, rather than personal comfort like cushioning on the insides.

Before Tony can come up with an answer – why are his thoughts so slow? – Steve bites out a clipped, “Come.” Then he stands, blending in easily with the darkness surrounding them as soon as he steps out of the protective cone of light from the arc reactor.

It is not so much Steve’s order than Tony’s mounting fear that the Captain was an illusion that spurs him into motion. Steve must have freed him of most of the debris, because the only thing that hinders Tony from getting up are the erratic movements of the suit, responding to his sluggish gestures, and the pain, which is, as usual, worse than the mere expectation of it.

Once he manages to stand, Tony tests the range of motion he is capable off. The suit does as directed, although the mechanical whirring is louder than usual, strained almost. He has no time to linger on that, though; he is functional and that is all that matters.

Favouring his right side, Tony follows after Steve slowly, familiarizing himself with his current situation. He is glad that the face plate is intact, so he can grimace all he wants, can close his eyes when the dizziness threatens to overwhelm him, without having to explain himself.

It is not far, but the terrain is tricky and Tony has to concentrate on keeping himself upright, so it feels like an eternity until Steve and Clint come into view, bathed in blue that does not hide the fact that Clint looks just like Tony feels; face pained and curled in on himself, tugging at his legs despite them being trapped under a rather large boulder.

“Tony,” Clint breathes, saying the name like a prayer, filled with new confidence that he is going to be saved.

“I distantly remember us talking about you staying in the back,” Tony says as he leans down to inspect the problem at hand. “As someone with a ranged weapon it makes sense to not always jump into the thick of things. Now, see where it got you.”

Joking is simple, familiar. It helps distract them all from the less than ideal situation. It gives Tony something to concentrate on other than circling around damages and memories of caves, and has Clint holding onto something other than pain.

“Stark,” Steve barks from the side, obviously offended. “We need to get him out of there.”

Sarcasm takes much less energy than staying calm but Tony tries. “On it,” he answers shortly. He can be a team-player if he has to.

One eye on the low energy levels of the suit, Tony gestures for Steve to take hold of Clint before beginning to lift the boulder. He ends up hugging it close and activates the thrusters, forgetting about the left one being out of order, which has him almost careening into another wall, but he gets his short flight under control and frees Clint who hisses loudly, drawing Steve’s attention. That gives Tony enough time to drop the boulder unceremoniously and slump in exhaustion, curious as to how this can have him drained of energy when he has not actually done any lifting himself.

“That looks definitely broken,” Tony comments once he has caught his breath.

He is just stating the obvious. Clint’s leg lays at an odd angle, the skin scrapped and bloody, but thankfully no bone is in sight. Crawling around underground would be made so much more difficult with a compound fracture. It will still not be much fun, but they can stabilize this, hope to keep it from getting worse and infected.

“No shit,” Clint mutters, momentarily broken out of his rocking back and forth, wanting to cradle his leg but frightened of the pain of it. Steve simply glares as he checks his pockets for something to clean the wounds and possibly wrap it up.

“At least you still have both arms to shoot,” Tony adds because he cannot help himself, feeling somewhat accomplished when Clint snorts.

When Steve opens his mouth, no doubt to lecture him, Tony raises a hand. “I’ll find something to splint that.”

“I’ve already looked around,” Steve says, for once not criticizing but concentrated on the Clint’s leg, maybe a bit miffed that he was not enough to get Clint out in the first place. Although that might just be wishful thinking, because that would be a first step in Tony being seen as useful.

“I would never criticize your eyesight,” Tony quips, then taps the arc reactor with his left hand, “but you didn’t have a flashlight.”

 

* * *

 

Steve does not say anything when Tony comes back long minutes later, handing him a piece of splintered wood. It is not ideal but it will have to do for now.

He bows down to take care of Clint’s leg while Tony keeps in the background, making no move to actually help. Biting the inside of his cheek, Steve does not say anything about it, however, because he remembers the exact way Tony’s hands are always moving. This kind of impatience has no place around wounds, especially blood and flesh ones that Tony cannot throw money at or fix by simply exchanging a part.

“Any guess what’s happened?” Clint asks, clearly trying to distract himself from Steve’s hands working on his leg, straightening the bones as best as he can before immobilizing it with their make-shift splint.

“Someone blew up the building,” Tony answers in an irritating blend of bored and cheerful. There is a distraction to his tone that is not exactly untypical for him, although he usually manages to stay focused on the field.

“Really?” Clint chuckles, then groans through the pain. “How did you gather that?”

“I might be a drunken asshole most of the time, but I _am_ a genius, you know?”

Tony leans against the boulder he got off Clint, opening his faceplate to reveal a tired grin, which is made only more inappropriate by the trail of blood running down the side of his face, half-dried and glistening in the weak light. If he is bleeding, he should know that this is not a situation to joke about.

Before Steve can stop himself, he says, “You never act like one.” His tone is bitter and he regrets that, if not the words themselves. He has never pretended to approve of Tony’s antics.

With some satisfaction, he sees the grin drop and morph into something more caustic.

“Pray tell,” Tony drawls in the kind of voice that usually has Steve’s nerves scream attention, but he is too preoccupied with their current dilemma for that. “How is a genius supposed to act?”

It sounds like a question Tony has collected answers for all his life. Any other day, for anyone but Tony, Steve might have had sympathy. It must be lonely to think twice as fast as anyone around, to try and find solutions to things other people have not even recognized as a problem. But all he sees when he looks at Tony is Howard’s arrogance multiplied unmeasurably. He sees a boy who never had to work for anything, never had to starve, never had to fight his own battles, or any battle at all. He sees a child refusing to grow up, who gets away with it because he can afford doing whatever he wants.

Testing the stability of his construction and satisfied when it seems to hold for the moment, Steve straightens to his full height. “Not like you don’t care at all about the people you’re with.”

He looks up just in time to see Tony’s expression grow rigid, like something painted on. It is just another fake thing about him, no different than everything else.

“Of course I don’t,” Tony answers harshly, although surprisingly little of that seems to be pointed at Steve. “I’ve never cared for anyone in my life.”

He says it in a way that has Steve almost agreeing with him, brittle and still full of confidence, like they are just echoing a well-known truth.

“That’s not what I meant.” Steve shakes his head, wondering how they always manage to get so quickly to this point where they are left with no other alternative than to attack or accept defeat.

“But you do.” Tony’s laughter comes out in short, rasped bursts, getting thrown off the walls around them like ricocheting bullets. “You say so every time we talk. Every time you look at me.”

There is something unstable to Tony’s gaze, bearing into Steve, something waiting to break free, and even ignoring their current surroundings Steve is sure he does not want that to happen.

“Tony,” he calls out in as soothing a tone as he can manage, sweat clinging to his back and all his senses zeroed in on his two teammates because they are cut off from the rest of the world.

“Oh, I’m Tony again?” Tony asks, making half a step forward before he seems to think better of it. “Doesn’t matter. Right now I’m only interested in one thing.”

“Please tell me it’s not hot end-of-the-world sex,” Clint pipes up. His attempt at joking fails horribly but he looks up at them with the same stubborn determination that Steve has come to get to know so well by now. “Cause I won’t stop you but I’m not into that.” Almost too quiet to hear, he adds, “Although it might do you a lot of good.”

Steve knows what Clint is trying to do, to root them safely back in the present because infighting will not get them out of here. Still, he cannot help but glare at the injured archer, only to have him stick out his chin. Clint has never been one to back down from a challenge, or to dwell on things he cannot change, so he takes his broken leg in stride and concentrates on making sure they will not make the situation worse.

“We need to get out of there,” Tony says, completely ignoring his chance to add a lewd remark. Usually that might have been reason enough for concern, but Steve is very much aware of how true Tony’s statement is to pay it much mind.

“You don’t say.” It comes out sharper as intended, and while it was not directed at Tony, the genius tends to think everything centres around him, so he naturally takes it as critique.

“I’m not going to die in a cave.” Tony speaks with so much vehemence that it halts Steve’s argument before it even reaches his lips. It is like Tony is having an altogether different conversation than him.

“This is not exactly a ca-” Steve starts, tone confused, but is hushed when Clint nudges his leg.

When Tony does not respond at all, Steve takes a step closer to him to have a better look. The light is bad, but even so he notices how pale Tony is, sweat glistening on his forehead, mingling in with the blood. There is also a slight shakiness to how he stands, like the ground underneath him is moving in and out, leaving him to scramble for safe footing.

Steve’s first thought is one of resentment. Of course he has to get stuck underground with a civilian prone to panicking at the most unfortunate moment. They need to work together here, and that is hard enough even if Stark was in control of his feelings.

He almost wants to bark out for Tony to get a grip of himself, when he looks at Clint again. There is something in the archer’s gaze watching Tony that Steve does not understand, a significance he cannot grasp.

“Can’t we just blow our way out?” Clint asks, causing Steve to want to roll his eyes, but he sees enough to know that this question is not for his benefit.

As if they have pushed a button, the fog in Tony’s eyes clears and he regains control of his expression.

“No, birdbrain,” Tony snaps, turning right back into his old self, “unless you fancy being buried alive.”

“How do you know that will happen?” Steve asks to give Tony something to concentrate on, giving them less ground to argue. “The situation seems to have stabilized.”

“Because the fucking building collapsed on top of us and it is a miracle already that the basement kept standing at all,” Tony lectures impatiently, looking at the crumbled walls around them as if he expects a mere breath will knock them over completely.

“What do you know about buildings?” The questions earns him a scoff.

“I designed a few,” Tony drawls. Of course he has, because there does not seem to be a field Tony has not experimented in.  “Like the tower you’re living in? That’s a hell of a lot more complicated than the average hut you grew up in over in Brooklyn.”

The comment should not hurt but it does. Steve is not ashamed of where he comes from, but it reawakens the sickly boy still residing in his bones, the one secretly intimidated by Tony, his knowledge and power and unimaginable wealth.

“Could you tone down the cursing a bit,” Steve grounds out because he is always at a loss at how to deal with Tony, but this only earns him incredulous stares from both his teammates.

“Did you seriously just –” Tony starts but trails off, obviously deciding that Steve is not worth the effort of finding the right words.

“Just go brood somewhere else if you have nothing worthwhile to contribute.”

They stare at each other with the kind of unrelenting heat that is so familiar that it aches. It always comes down to this with them, and soon things will dissolve into another shouting match, but they do not have the time for that. Steve is just about to apologize – just to keep the peace, not because he thinks he is in the wrong – when Tony huffs and turns around like a child throwing a fit.

“Whatever,” he tells the darkness he stumbles into. “Just look for weak spots in the walls.”

To his slight shame, Steve is relieved when Tony leaves them. He is used to be able to trust his team, but something about Tony just constantly puts him on edge.

Not looking at Clint, who he knows will have reproach written all over his face, Steve says, “Sit tight. We’ll get you out of here.”

It is not that easy of course. Steve is not sure why, but none of them has a flashlight on them, which does not mean much for the missions they usually spend their time with. But now it means that Clint is left completely blind, while Steve at least has the serum working in his favour. Even so he sees nothing more than vague shapes, leaving him to stumble over debris on his way to the outer walls, knocking and pushing in the hopes of finding something that will help them.

A weak spot, as Tony calls it, but with every minute passing Steve has less success in fighting the urge to simply put his head through the wall.

Tony himself has shut his faceplate again and sat down on the floor approximately in the middle of the room. He has not moved in quite some time but Steve has no desire at all to check on him. If he wants to be a child and mope around instead of helping – well, Steve is not all right with that, because there is still the matter of Clint being hurt, but at least he does not have to deal with him for the time being.

He does check in on Clint, though, who is rather annoyed at being rendered mostly unable to move but holds up as expected. The joys of working with someone trained in surviving hardship.

During one of these stops, he stares hard at Tony and cannot keep the annoyance from surging. “Are you going to do something other than sit around uselessly?”

Nothing changes in Iron Man’s posture and it only irritates Steve more that he cannot see Tony’s expression, safely hidden behind the metal mask. Then, with an audible sigh, Iron Man turns his head in their direction.

“I’m helping,” he says, adding a lop-sided shrug that he aborts halfway through the motion. “I’m scanning the room.”

“Scanning?” Steve echoes, voice heavy with scepticism, although he knows there is nothing that pushes Tony quicker over the edge than doubting his abilities.

“Why don’t you hold back your ignorance and just believe for once that I know what I’m doing? You know, since I’m the only one here who has a degree or five.”

“Guys,” Clint cuts in, “please stop arguing. I don’t want to suffocate from lack of air because you two couldn’t stop arguing for a minute to get us out of here.”

“That’s not –” Tony starts but Clint is done with them.

“I don’t care, Stark,” he snaps. “Just do your scanning thing and tell Steve where to concentrate his overflowing energy at. I want to go home.”

To give him at least some credit, Tony swallows whatever response he had no doubt waiting on his tongue, but then he waits exactly until Steve has turned away from him before he gets to his feet.

“There,” Tony says, pointing at a stretch of wall that looks no different than the rest. But there is enough conviction in his tone, even audible through the voice modulator, that Steve does not doubt him.

He does not respond either, simply makes his way over to the appointed place, coming to a halt in front of it when he realizes that knowing _where_ does not quite solve the question of _how_.

“Do you have any of your explosive arrows left?” Steve asks Clint, thinking they might be able to control the explosion enough to get out of here alive.

When Iron Man sidles up next to him, Steve swears he hears a sigh, just as unmistakeably as the annoyance in his following order. “Stand back.”

“I thought we weren’t going to blast our way out,” Clint asks in their backs, managing a much politer tone than Steve would have, making him truly grateful for the archer being here with them.

It is hard to imagine Tony and he would have gotten anywhere but to an early grave if left to their own devices down here. They are not out of here yet, of course, but as much as Steve hates to let someone else be the voice of reason, he is still glad for it.

“Well, we’re not going to do it with moronically applied brute force,” Tony drawls. It could be wishful thinking, but when he elaborates, it is with a gentler tone. “This is not a carrying wall. Unfortunately it won’t get us to the surface just yet, but there’s at least a lot more space behind that than there is in here.”

Not giving anyone the chance to voice further worries, Tony raises his hand at the wall, but instead of the by now familiar repulsor beam, a red laser comes shooting out of some plate above his wrist. It sizzles in the air and cuts through stone, and Steve imagines he tastes freedom at the back of his throat.

The wall crumbles, slow at first and then all at once. Light shines into their temporary prison, stabbing at their eyes. It is not the bright light of the sun but something more sterile, industrial. So Tony was right, they are not out completely yet, but a first step has been made. Steve’s breathing, in any case, has gotten easier and the horrible feeling of being buried has ceased.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words!  
> Let's see how very bad our boys are at communicating today.

It takes effort to keep his hand steady. It would not do much harm to have the line the laser cuts end up a bit wobbly, but Tony is painfully aware of Steve watching his every move with narrowed eyes. Maybe it is disbelief at what modern tech can accomplish, maybe it is simple distrust – it does not matter. Anyway, Tony has learned early on to calm the trembling in his hand, otherwise two of his favourite hobbies – being drunk and wielding a soldering iron – would have been mutually exclusive.

So his aim stays true and he cuts them a way out through the concrete. He is disappointed when his scans prove true and they are still underground, but there is light and more space to put between himself and Steve’s judgement.

“So we got out,” Steve says, utterly unimpressed, and turns back to Clint. “What now?”

Tony should let it go but he cannot help the constant irritation, thrumming along with his elevated heartrate. “Thank you, Tony, for keeping us from blowing ourselves up completely,” he remarks with sarcasm dripping from the words, trailing after Steve despite wanting nothing more than to go ahead.

“We can pat your ego later,” Steve chides, never even sparing him another glance as he kneels down beside the archer. “Think you can walk, Clint?”

Which has Tony rolling his eyes behind the safety of his faceplate. Does Steve expect Clint to hobble after them on his broken leg? For some reason, though, Clint remains patient and simply shrugs.

“If I have to,” he says, because working for SHIELD has trained all self-preservation out of him. Not that Tony is one to talk. “But I don’t know for how long.”

When Steve looks around, likely for something they can turn into a stretcher or at least crutches, Tony crouches down next to them. “I’ll carry you.”

“Sir,” JARVIS pipes up, a hint of worry in his tone, but Tony cuts him off abruptly, making sure he can only use their private channel for now.

New warnings pop up in front of his eyes, talking about stability and added weight and the estimated damage more pressure will do to his ribs. Tony dismisses all of them. Hawkeye might be heavier than he looks but what use is a metal armour that cannot carry a bit of extra baggage?

“Hop on, birdbrain,” Tony says, turning his back to the archer to give easier access. “And do try to not hit me in the face with your bow. I designed that to hurt.”

Clint at least chuckles as he pulls himself up and onto Tony’s back. It is neither elegant nor ideal since the armour does not exactly have convenient edges for someone to hold on to, but they will manage if they go slow. The whole time, Steve watches them with scepticism apparent on his face, arms half-raised as if he is just waiting for the moment Tony will let Clint fall.

“We need to get going,” Steve says, once Clint confirms his seat is more or less secure. “I doubt we’re suddenly all alone down here.”

They must look ridiculous, the robot and the archer with his splintered leg sticking out, but none of them feel like laughing. Tony turns slowly to the opening in the wall, taking a first careful step, all the while giving Clint enough time to adjust his grip.

“Why so pessimistic, Cap? Everyone else might have been crushed.”

Like they have almost been. Tony shakes his head. He truly does not want to go there. No more cave-in analogies if he wants to stay sane.

Shoulders tense, Steve walks past him, looking out through the hole in the wall, always expecting the next bout of trouble to find them.

“I usually don’t hope for buildings to wipe out people,” he then hisses quietly, causing Tony to groan. Captain Righteous naturally has to show compassion for the bad guys with a secret underground lab cooking up nasty things.

“I do,” Clint speaks up in a completely fake light tone, “when they otherwise try to kill us.”

At least one of them has sense, but Tony cannot let it go that easily. “Don’t blame Cap. All his murderous urges are reserved for Hydra and me.”

It is easier to keep talking than to concentrate on his steps. Carrying Clint does hamper his agility to the point where every movement jostles his broken bones. It is painful, but the pain will at least keep him on track.

“Silence now,” Steve orders briskly. And, with barely a glance back, he is gone, running ahead as usual.

The first hallway they find themselves in is deserted. Down here, everything is more sterile than on the upper floors. Tony notices the cameras mounted in regular intervals but is too busy with keeping upright to disturb Steve’s fixation on scouting ahead to suggest they find a computer and see what Tony can find out about their situation.

Right now, they are too loud – the suit whirring with every step, Clint’s bow clanging when it hits metal – and too exposed, walking aimlessly. If Steve hopes to just stumble over a stairwell taking them up to the surface, Tony thinks he will be severely disappointed. He is already sure that they are not underneath the original building anymore. The warehouse was big, but the hallway ahead spans a farther distance if his calculations are right – and they usually are. Still, he keeps quiet for the moment. Even he knows restraint and when he needs to stop pushing.

On their right side they pass a number of doors, each of which Steve listens at and pushes open to make sure they hold no surprises. They find machinery and dorms and store rooms but nothing out of the ordinary.

They stumble upon their first enemies a good ten minutes later: two men, both armed, one arguing with someone over his radio. So there _are_ others. Tony thinks they should talk about this, make a plan before charging out into the open, but he holds himself back with a sigh when Steve raises a hand at them in a silent order to stay and crouches forward himself. The two guards never stand a chance. The first gets taken out by the shield – which makes too much noise when it hits a wall on its way – and Steve is on the second before he even realizes that his friend has just been taken out.

In a way, it is a piece of art to see Steve at work. The way his body moves, muscles flexing and hands reaching out instinctively, face pulled into a mask of pure concentration, not a trace of sympathy to be found. From an observer’s point of view, Tony can appreciate the flash of terror in the second guard’s eyes before he falls to the ground with a protesting gurgle, cut off when his neck snaps.

As much as Tony enjoys getting a rise out of Steve, he hopes he will never push things so far that Steve will look at _him_ like this, impassionate and cold, with an intensity that burns through every armour.

Steve barely waits for them to catch up before he is ready to march on, new determination stitched into the line of his shoulders. It is like he needs to get out all the pent-up energy from being buried, however briefly. Captain America does not deal well with sitting around uselessly.

“Wait,” Tony calls, grateful when Steve actually stops, even though he turns around only reluctantly. “What are you doing?”

Annoyance flickers over his face. “We need to deal with whatever people are still down here,” Steve says slowly, as if explaining it to a child. “If we don’t find an easy way out, we can’t have them attacking our backs when we’re searching.”

Tony knows that. He also knows that he does not want to trail after an irate Captain America, who is put out by the fact that the mission parameters changed and turned his clean-cut operation into a mess. No one will say anything if Steve decides to wreck some punching bags once they are back home, but while they are still here they need to think more about how they want to go about this instead of just hitting everything until it stops moving.

“Have you ever thought about not barging in everywhere without a plan?”

Tony is angry, and hearing the somewhat even tone of his own voice, filtered through the armour, does not help, so he opens the faceplate to better glare at Steve who just stares back defiantly.

“We have a plan,” Steve says stubbornly. “Get out of here.”

If he did not have Clint hanging off his back, Tony would have thrown up his arms in frustration. “Great. So you want to beat up everyone in our path alone?”

Steve very much looks like he wants to do exactly that. “Last time I looked, there were at least two of us here that aren’t egocentric cowards,” he spits out.

Immediately, Tony regrets baring his face, because he is sure he cannot cover up his flinch quickly enough. Things would be so much easier if Tony truly were a coward. He would not have talked back at Howard so often. He would have kept doing exactly what Obadiah had wanted him to. Maybe Afghanistan would not have happened. But even if it had, he would have died there. And, who knows, maybe then he would have had peace, at last.

Well, he is _not_ a coward. A great many other unpleasant things, yes, but never that.

Clint knocks on his armoured shoulder, likely in an attempt to get him to calm down. It does not help. Instead it makes Tony only more determined to not back down, to not keep running around without knowing where they have to go, expecting enemies around every corner.

“I’m not a battle horse,” he snaps. “If Clint’s going to stay on my back, I don’t know how much help I’ll be since my repulsors aren’t working quite right.” He sees the slight twitch on Steve’s face, clearly saying he is never of much use anyway, but Tony ignores it and simply goes on. “And if I put him down, one of us has to play guard dog anyway, since he can hardly run.”

Which would not be much of a problem. Tony can plant himself down like a wall to make sure nothing gets past him, but things have a tendency to explode around him and no one wants Clint to get caught in that. And Steve is all movement in battle. Forcing him to stay stationary will only dampen their effectiveness.

“Having your teammate’s back is also clearly beneath you,” Steve sneers, managing to momentarily stop all of Tony’s thoughts.

Tony almost groans in frustration, because that is not what he meant. Why does Steve always misinterpret what he says? Is it truly that hard to not always think the worst of him? Apparently yes, because nothing in Steve’s expression budges as he keeps glaring.

He feels his muscles go lax and his lips curl into a bitter, twisted thing that tries to be a smirk but falls horribly flat. “You really do think the worst of me,” Tony says quietly, almost to himself.

It surprises him, how much it still hurts. Ever since they first met all his fears of Captain America hating him have proven to be true, and still Steve manages to sneak past his defences and add to the disappointed pain amassing there since Tony was a child and still hoped for the Captain to become his friend someday.

Completely involuntarily, Tony takes a step back, unsure himself what use the motion has. It is not like he can actually go anywhere down here. For now, they are stuck together, until he can hide away in his workshop and lick his wounds.

“I’m so flattered that you’re fighting over me,” Clint pipes up, steel in his tone. “But I’m actually not, so could we please concentrate on the task at hand.”

Steve looks chagrined, making Tony glad that he cannot look at Clint, and that, in return, Clint cannot see the tightness of his own face. Because the archer is oftentimes more perceptive than people give him credit for, and all Tony wants is to wallow in his misery in private.

Before their Captain can say anything – likely an apology because everyone other than Tony gets those – Clint knocks sharply on the armour again. “What is your plan, Tony.”

It is somewhat mollifying to be asked this, no matter that Steve’s expression sours.

“We blow them to hell,” Tony answers, with heartfelt resentment.

He can already feel his fingertips tingling with the longing to create directed chaos. If he thinks about it, that is probably how Steve thinks about taking their enemies down one by one. The satisfying act of applying one’s mind and hands to get a step up. Then again, the tingling could also be nerve damage, because his arm is otherwise feeling rather numb. Still better than pain.

“What happened to no explosives?” Clint asks before Steve can, his tone much gentler, although he also lacks patience.

“We’re in a lab, right?” Tony explains, itching to get going. “It’s full of electronics. It’s a good thing then that you’ve got a tech genius at hand.” Steve radiates scepticism and even Clint is quiet, so Tony merely shakes his head. “Get me to a computer.”

It works wonderfully of course. Most of Tony’s plans do if he is allowed to follow them through. Once they find him a console and Tony’s fingers lower down on the keyboard, things start going right. For him, at least. First off, he can sit. He only notices he is out of breath once he does not have to press on; only feels the shaking of his legs once he takes the weight off them.

Clint sits in a chair to his right, settling his head onto his arms, and watches Tony work, although not with the same air of expecting failure as Steve does, who paces behind them, constantly keeping his eyes on the entrance. Tony does not remind him that he has hacked the cameras before he has even tried to get deeper into the system. No one will surprise them in here, but he guesses Steve cannot let his guard down any less than Tony can, so he does not comment on that, briefly thinking how much easier things would be if only they learned to be a little kinder with each other.

“What are you going to do?” Clint asks, purely out of interest it seems, so Tony flashes him a smile.

“Whatever I can.” He shrugs, for a moment forgetting that will only set off more pain in his shoulder.

It turns out, there is a lot he can do. With only a little bit of digging, he manages to pull up floor plans. Turns out he was right: the underground lab is much bigger than the warehouse upstairs. In fact, it spans several buildings. Unfortunately, it has few exit options.

Pulling the plans up on an extra monitor, he nods at Steve. “Look at these,” he says absentmindedly, not waiting for an answer before he turns back to his own work.

He does not miss the confused look Steve throws him, nor the short hesitation before he turns towards the monitor, but does not put in any effort to mull that over. If Steve wants to complain, they can do that later. He just thought Steve would appreciate getting a better understanding of where they are and where they have to go. Does he not always preach about strategy?

Next, Tony does simple recon. Scrolling through the cameras, he finds everyone still down here with them, adding their position to the floor plans. It adds up to twenty-three people, not all of them guards. Some are scientists, but Tony knows better than to underestimate people in lab coats. About a third of the cameras are not working, which he supposes is due to them being caught in the blast, so he strikes out the rooms on the floorplan.

He also finds their way out. It is caved in too, naturally, because nothing can ever be simple. Several people have gathered around the useless stairwell, gesturing, likely discussing how to get out. They have not yet started digging, but they do not look too distressed about it either.

Most of the others are working frantically, gathering data, collecting stacks of papers and notebooks. Where he can, Tony interrupts their tries to download from the servers, but while they are down here they should probably take care of the paper trail too. And once he is not busy scamming their signal, he should make a copy of their data to peruse later.

“All right,” Tony says once he is satisfied with his findings. He turns his chair around to face his teammates, ignoring how the movement makes him dizzy. He thinks he might be getting worse but does not dare checking with JARVIS. Surely the AI will inform him before he is about to drop unconscious – or dead.

“I suggest we go room by room,” Tony begins, pointing out a possible way along the rooms on the monitor. “I’ll start a distraction. You,” he gestures at Steve, “go in and take them out. That way Clint can stay back out of immediate danger, and we know exactly where everyone is at any time. Little room for surprises.”

Tony is ready to go into more detail, because he thinks this is a good plan, one they should not dismiss just because it is him who proposed it. He does not accuse Steve of being petty, but most of their arguments start because Tony has his own mind.

To his surprise, Steve just nods. “Let’s go for the ones we can take out quietly first. Keep the large group for last.”

It is almost fun; _could_ be fun, if it were not for the fact that Tony is hurting all over and there is still no blue sky above him. But they work perfectly together. Tony waits until Steve is in position then does his special brand of mayhem: he sends high-pitched noises through loudspeakers loud enough to put the inhabitants of a room momentarily out of commission; he has machines clattering and throwing up panicked alarms; he hacks into the comms; he has consoles throwing sparks. Whenever he gives the word, Steve goes in. Watching on the grizzly screens is not as beautiful as the real thing, but he still gets to unabashedly watch Steve in action. Clint’s face of increasing disbelief is just a bonus. Really, they should see what he can do when he is not in pain and has time to spare.

Steve even comes back to them before tackling the large group, although Tony was half-certain he would simply plough on. It is better this way, since Tony is sure that a bit of adrenaline is just the right thing to keep him on his feet for a bit longer.

They must make for a hilarious picture: Captain America slightly ruffled but with anger burning in his eyes, a limping Iron Man with more dents than unblemished metal, and Hawkeye on his back, wielding his bow with a vengeance, barely hindered by being carried around. So, despite barging in without bothering with any secrecy, they have the element of surprise. The guards are looking at them slack-jawed before they truly realize what is happening. The fight is over almost as soon as it has begun, leaving them without enemies and still no way out.

Clint laughs as he slides down Tony’s back to the ground, poking one of the downed guards with his bow for good measure. Tony, in turn, staggers because of the sudden loss of weight.

“Everything all right?” Clint asks, noticing how unsteady Tony is.

Keeping his right arm very still, Tony waves him off. “Just missing a little victory drink,” he quips, wishing for something to numb the pounding of his head.

Unfortunately, they have talked loud enough to alert Steve, who has gone off to examine the rubble-blocked stairwell. His face morphs from worry into unmitigated anger. He takes in the shakiness of Tony’s legs and how he seemingly cannot quite keep upright.

“Are you having withdrawal symptoms?” Steve asks incredulously.

Tony cannot actually blame him for coming to this conclusion, because, yes, he does drink a lot, more again since Pepper left him, and one look into any newspaper paints an ugly picture of his unreliable ways. But he has tried to never let his vices interfere with Avenger business. He even implemented a security protocol that prevents him from navigating the suit while drunk. Tony is capable of learning from his mistakes, thank you very much. But of course no one gives him the benefit of the doubt.

“Nah,” he drawls lazily, steading himself against a wall, not caring how it looks. “The suit is prepared for that.”

If anything, Steve’s face turns more disgusted. “You’ve got alcohol with you?”

“Always be ready for a party.” They cannot know that, but he quotes his mother here. Maria, who was responsible of the ungrateful task of keeping up the Stark family’s reputation, who taught him how to make an impression. Because _even a bad impression is better than going completely unnoticed._

_Thanks, mum_ , Tony thinks as he watches Steve’s opinion of him sink even lower. He huffs in resignation and turns to inspect the cave-in as well, if only to avert his face so he does not have to see the look Steve and Clint are undoubtedly sharing right now. For good measure, he closes the faceplate again. He can always blame that on having to do more scanning.

This team thing has turned out harder than he has expected it to. Most of the time it is going well. They have regular slumber parties, watch movies and have food fights. That almost feels like _family_ , like something he has been wishing for even before he realized that Howard’s opinion of him would never change. It is nice to stumble out of his workshop, pleasantly exhausted, and find someone in the kitchen to share a word or two with, who prepares coffee when they see him coming. The fighting, too, is a surprisingly coordinated thing. They just fit, and he never knew he missed having someone watching his back until they started deflecting bullets intended for him.

It is the moments in between that are difficult. All of them are damaged in their own way. Worse, they are all used to go on anyway, to pretend everything is fine. Settling into trust is not easy, especially not when one was taught to depend only on oneself.

So, Tony knows he is not the most compatible being. Social niceties usually fly right over his head. But for all his trying to be better, he sometimes sees it clearly in Steve’s eyes that he will never get there.

“Well, we won’t be getting out this way,” Tony mutters, staring at the results of his scanning. Digging here would just bring more and more rubble down on them. And he has had enough of that.

It takes a while for the other two to react, but Tony still does not turn around. He is giving them space, just like Rhodey does with him when he is in an explosive mood. It usually works, since Tony burns bright but quickly. Captain America, on the other hand, can simmer and hold a grudge for years if someone insulted his delicate sense of right and wrong, Tony is sure of that.

“Maybe we should just wait here until they break through from the outside,” Clint finally speaks, tone carefully neutral. Tony still whirls around as if he has been showered with more accusations. “Nat’s out there, she’ll get us out. And it lowers the chances of us making everything worse by digging blindly.”

Inwardly, Tony curses. What Clint is saying makes sense, but in an unacceptable way. Tony is not actually in a position where he can sit around idly, waiting to be rescued. At some point during the short fight, his vision has stopped clearing when he remains still, and he feels the kind of exhaustion tugging at his mind that has him fearing he will fall unconscious sooner rather than later. It is only the suit and decades’ worth of experience with stumbling around drunk that keeps him standing at all.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Tony quips, infusing humour in the hopes to cover the sharpness of the words. The voice modulator, at least, does not translate the slight trembling, so it could be interpreted as dismissive instead of an almost-plea.

“Must be buried around here somewhere,” Clint answers dryly. He leans back lazily against the wall but there is no mistaking his tiredness. He is pale and sweating and holds his broken leg gingerly.

“I’m with Clint,” Steve says, surprising no one. “I can make a sweep to see whether I can find something helpful, but we shouldn’t make things worse.”

He stands stoically to the side, close enough to Clint in case the archer needs assistance, but with a telling distance between him and Tony. Not that Tony is particularly unhappy about that. The more irritated Steve is with him, the lesser are the chances of him looking too closely and seeing something Tony does not want him to see.

Despite himself, Tony says, “You shouldn’t go alone.”

He has checked the cameras and they have taken out everyone he has found. But this is a secret underground lab, there are bound to be surprises. And while Steve is more than able to take care of himself, Tony does not want him wandering off alone. There is also the small concern that Tony does not know how much longer _he_ will be able to defend Clint and himself if it comes to that.

“Do you suggest we leave Clint defenceless?” Steve’s voice turns scathing, and for a short moment Tony just wishes he could tell the truth, that their concerns align. “He is hurt.”

Tony wants to shout back _I am too_ , but he does not because that would not change anything and he does not want Steve to think of him as even more of a liability. All they need is to get out of here. Everything else will fall into place. It usually does.

“I’ve got a broken leg,” Clint points out, annoyed at being discussed as a problem. “That doesn’t make me the damsel in distress here.”

No, Tony thinks, given a little more time that will be _him_. But he sees the wary line of Clint’s back and is, momentarily, ashamed. Steve and his bickering is thoroughly unfair on the archer, on top of him being all but immobile and in pain. But so is Tony, and he does not have the energy of keeping upright and thinking of a way out of here, while also keeping the peace with Steve.

Accentuated by the panicked red blinking of the HUD and the constant ring of warnings, all of Steve’s words and looks and twitches become more unbearable by the minute. Tony knows he is found lacking in the Captain’s eyes. But, well, he is lacking in his own too, but he is trying. He really is. And all he wants now is to go back to the surface so he can see the sky before he passes out. Or, preferably, not pass out at all until he is safely out of sight in his workshop, where he is not vulnerable. But there is not denying that he is fading quickly.

“JARVIS,” Tony says in the privacy of the suit. “We got another dose for the pain?”

It is not the smartest thing to do, dosing himself. Especially since the pain keeps him somewhat grounded in reality, but it also slows his mind. More so than the morphine does.

“Your breathing is already –” JARVIS naturally tries to argue, but Tony does not have the patience for fights on every front.

“I know,” he interrupts his AI not very gently. “Rib meet lung. Not ideal. But if I pass out and stop breathing, you are welcome to initiate countermeasures.”

By which he means for JARVIS to administer naloxone, to counteract the respiratory depressive morphine. He is not naïve enough, however, to believe that JARVIS does not take this as permission to finally alert someone to his battered state of health. Tony swallows and deliberately does not contradict him. Despite his self-neglecting behaviour, he really has no desire to die in what could just as well be a re-enactment of that cave in Afghanistan. With a significantly less amount of water, although Steve’s constant doubts are their own kind of torture.

“Just a bit, J,” Tony sighs, wondering for the umpteenth time why he has given his machines and lab assistants the ability to talk back. “We need to get out of here and I won’t be of any help if I can’t think.”

JARVIS is the one person who knows Tony best. One might argue that this does not mean much, since his grasp on human emotions is still rather tenuous, but he has grown so much since he first came online, surpassing even Tony’s wildest dreams. Where Tony is still wont to shut out Pepper and Rhodey, JARVIS has seen so many of his lows, has picked him up and given him something to hold onto, even if it is only the voice of his old family butler. He _trusts_ JARVIS, and not just because loyalty to him is an integral part of his code. He likes to think they have grown beyond that.

Moments later, Tony feels the prick of a needle – a feature he has built in early on, when his heart used to give him more trouble, which could prove fatal in battle. Incidentally, he has not told anyone about it, knowing neither of his friends or teammates would approve of his portable med bay.

The morphine helps, if only minimally. It is mostly just the thought that he has done something to keep him going. It does not do anything against the crushing weight of Steve’s balled disapproval meeting him when he looks up again.

Tony sighs, still inaudible to the two men with him. What has he missed now? Yes, he has tuned them out for a moment there mostly because it is all but impossible to concentrate on more than one thing at once at the moment – which is truly ridiculous, considering how his brain usually works – but it was his turn in the argument, yes? And surely Steve appreciates his silence more than whatever snarky answer he would have given otherwise.

“Let’s keep going,” Tony says, as much to them as it is an order to his own body. _Don’t fail me just yet._

He starts to make his way over to Clint to pick him up again, but Steve’s hand on his shoulder stops him. He does not feel the contact through the suit, but it is nonetheless jarring. Everything Steve does is when it is directed at him.

“We haven’t yet decided whether we _should_ go on,” Steve bites out between clenched teeth, glaring.

Any other time, Tony might have laughed. This would not be the first time that Tony continued an argument within his own head only to think it resolved when he emerged. Steve has never appreciated that.

“Cap,” he sighs, drawing out the name like a prayer. “We’re in an underground lab filled with unknown machines and substances, and a building just fell on it. There’s no guarantee, but there could be an unwanted reaction – chemical leak, explosion, whatever. I just don’t want to be down here for it.”

He is likely exaggerating, but no amount of arguing will move Captain America if he has made up his mind, so Tony has to introduce new variables. For all he knows there _could_ have been something volatile caught in the blast in some of the collapsed rooms, even though he did not find anything immediately alarming when he went through the surveillance cameras. So it is not a lie. Just an embellishment to heighten his chances to get out of here.

Rather stoically, Steve stares first past Tony’s shoulder then right at him before he jerks his head in what must be a nod, because he turns around and starts walking, leaving Tony to gather up Clint and scramble after him.

“You shouldn’t push him so much,” Clint says quietly while he climbs back onto Tony’s back.

“Someone has to,” Tony answers cheerfully, glad that no one can see his grimace. Half of their arguments are not actually voluntarily on his part, although everyone expects by now that they have just fallen into the habit of shouting each other as a valid means of communication. But Tony _wants_ to get along with Steve, still carries that childhood wish in his heart to prove his father wrong. It is just not very likely that it will ever happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear from you.  
> (Also, I lied - mostly to myself - last week. It's now two and a half more weeks of studying until I'm finally through with med school. Anybody know any good tricks to keep myself motivated?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments. Enjoy!

When Tony ducks into the first room along their route, Steve simply watches him with a raised eyebrow but does not say anything. Although the peace will likely not hold for long since the eyebrow only climbs higher when Steve watches him burn a stack of papers in the third room and crash a computer in the fourth.

Tony is looking for a way out – there has to be an elevator somewhere to bring down the heavy machinery and supplies, even though it was not on the floorplan – but he is also trying to do what they were supposed to before they were blown up.

“This was supposed to be a straightforward mission,” Tony mutters under his breath as he staggers more than walks into the next room. “Get in, clean out the secret lab, get out.”

“What would you know about missions?” Steve drawls in his back in that tone that means he is rapidly losing his patience. “You’re never playing by the rules anyway.”

Tony thinks it thoroughly unfair that someone like Steve talks to him about rules. If he remembers correctly, Steve has tried for years to get into the Army, faking names, lying on record, and was then only chosen because even the military sometimes needs people who have their own mind. Before he can point that out, however, Clint cuts in, his tone growing less patient too.

“Leave him, Steve. Not everything Stark says is a challenge.”

Tony is surprised by basically getting defended. “Top marks, Legolas. Ignore my ramblings and just keep moving.” Truly, what he would not give if Steve stopped to take everything so personally.

“We would, if you didn’t insists on entering every room and nook on our way,” Steve grumbles, and pointedly refrains from helping to search the rooms. “We could already be out of here.”

_How?_ Tony wants to ask. _Want to set off another bomb and hide us all under your shield to hold off the debris?_ Tony is not known for subtlety, but even he knows that it is not always the smart thing to just tear down every wall in his way.

“Honestly, Cap, we still have a job to do, even if we were briefly buried alive,” he says instead, hoping that the reminder of their mission will get Steve off his back. Only, naturally, it backfires.

“Our job right now is to get Clint to safety,” Steve says tersely. Another silent _Do you care even a little bit?_ echoes beneath the words. Frankly, Tony is tired of it. Not everyone can exude Steve Rogers-like levels of charm and get away with it.

But if Steve tries to stay on topic for once, so can Tony. “And leave all of this for anyone stumbling over it to plunder?”

Tony thinks this is important. While Steve is still regularly surprised at what science can do, Tony knows it only too well. There is also the fact that Tony wants to keep going, but needs to do so slowly. Stopping in every room to have a look around gives him the opportunity to catch his breath. They have reached the point, though, where he could not say this anymore, even if he wanted to. Pride will be his downfall one day. Probably soon.

“We’ll take care of it once we’re out,” Steve says, half-dismissive, half as an order. Fortunately, Tony is good at ignoring both.

“We can’t just blow up the whole building once we’re out,” Tony says, trying a last time to explain, “we don’t know what they’re storing down here and what it can do.”

“Guys,” Clint snaps, sounding weary of their fighting. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. Tony’s right, no need to skip over the part where we’re fighting the bad guys.”

Tony’s surprise is short-lived, soured by how quickly Steve’s features soften as he looks at Clint, growing from irritated to concerned.

“But you’re –”

“Fine,” Clint repeats, daring either of them to argue. “Let it go, Steve. And stop egging him on, Tony. If you haven’t noticed, I can’t exactly run away when I’ve had enough of your bickering.” The way he sounds, he has already had more than enough. “Or if you want to turn it into an all-out brawl.”

Steve ducks his head, and even Tony feels bad for a moment. His preferred method of solving personal problems is running and hiding away in his workshop, so he can understand Clint’s frustration.

“We wouldn’t –” Steve starts but trails off as he glances at Tony, realizing that they have done nothing but laying into each other the whole time.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

 

* * *

 

Clint wonders whether he is being punished for something. He has committed enough sins to choose from, but whatever it is, being stuck underground with those two while unable to run away seems unnecessarily cruel. From an objective point of view, he understands the animosity. Steve values being true to oneself – as long as that self is Good – while Tony puts up a thousand layers and masks, just so no one can figure out what is underneath. Out on the field they work together perfectly, because they have a common enemy they can throw themselves at. But in all the moments in between, they have only each other to deal with, and there are years’ worth of insecurities separating them, on both sides.

Clint sees all that, but he cannot quite forgive them for it either. They are all on the same side here, a _team_ , and they are all damaged, they all have issues, and they deal with it. Only those two never seem to manage.

Strangely, he resents Steve more for it than Tony. Everyone knows Tony is a prick when things do not go his way, when he feels threatened or out of his element. But Steve, as their leader, is supposed to be above spiteful bickering, and should be able to keep a level head even when Tony gives him shit.

None of them is at fault for what happened here, so this blaming game is thoroughly out of place. They all want to get out, and still they seem incapable of simply working together.

Also, Clint is worried about Tony. The genius does his best to hide it, but he is not quite all right either. His steps are heavy, lacking the usual grace Tony manages to maintain even when in the suit. And Clint refuses to believe that is only due to his added weight. The suit is built to withstand more than that, and when Tony catches him out on the battlefield, he normally does not even sway an inch out of place. Furthermore, there is no absentminded rambling, no random observations or speculations, which Tony likes to fill silences with. Instead, every word Tony says is either barbed or defensive – and therefore likely meant to distract.

“Have you gotten any data from the computers?” Clint asks, mostly because the silence between his two companions becomes stifling, ready to give way to another argument, and the easiest way to mollify Tony is to ask about work.

Tony jerks slightly, like Clint reminded him of something important, although Tony is not one to forget stuff like that.

“When was I supposed to do that?” Tony shoots back, sharper than the question warrants, making Clint realize that he _has_ forgotten, despite them destroying the scientists’ things in every room they come across. “I was busy taking out everyone in our path.”

“Maybe we should –” Clint suggests gently, intent on not drawing attention to Tony’s blunder, but Steve interrupts him.

“We have no time for that.”

Steve’s voice is not even necessarily harsh but more like it normally is. But Steve is always running, from his past and towards something to give him meaning, missions mostly, like he has nothing to hold him in the present. Clint has noticed that early on but it has only started to become painful when he felt himself fitting in with their ragtag team of heroes, expecting everyone else to do the same. Because they _are_ good together.

“I think I need a break,” Clint says. It is only half a lie, because, yes, he is in pain, but he does not have to do anything other than holding on to Tony and let him do all the heavy lifting. He is sure, though, that all of them need the chance to sit down and catch their breath, even if they are not yet out of the lab.

Immediately, Steve’s face softens. Instead of being relieved, however, Clint wonders why Steve never extends that courtesy to Tony – who receives a glare when he lowers Clint to the ground without hesitation.

Clint thinks they will fall right into the next argument but then Tony just takes a step back and says, “I’m going to find a computer.” No quip, no sarcasm. Just a withdrawal.

They have come across several computers, and while Clint does not pretend he is as versed in handling tech as Tony is, he is sure the genius could get what they want from any of the things. Instead, he turns and walks past the last doors and towards a corner, hurrying to get out of sight.

“Why is he so impossible?” Steve rages as he sits down next to Clint, back against the wall and eyes on their surroundings.

He does not quite wait until Tony is out of earshot, almost like he _wants_ to provoke another fight. These two truly do not give each other even an inch. But the genius, while stumbling slightly for a moment, just keeps walking.

“Steve,” Clint says, aiming for a soothing tone but it ends up rather pained, which has nothing to do with his leg.

“What?” Steve all but snaps. “He is always so blasé about everybody’s life but his own. How could I just let this go?”

Unable to find any words to say, Clint stares at Steve, full of disbelief. Tony is good at hiding himself, but Steve is supposed to be better than this, to be able to look at them and not see what they project for the world to see but who they truly are. He wonders whether Steve’s blindness pertains only to Tony or whether he views them all completely wrong.

“He isn’t,” Clint says firmly, brooking no argument. “This isn’t easy on him either.”

“What? Because there’s no room service down here to bring him champagne?” It could be amusing, how well Steve’s face is made not only for gentleness but disgust too, how easy his eyes and mouth settle into condemnation.

“Because he’s trapped underground with someone who does a very good impression of hating him.” Clint meant for this to put a halt to Steve’s anger, because no matter their differences, he is sure Steve does _not_ hate Tony and does not want to be seen as if he does.

Contrary to his expectations, though, Steve merely huffs. “I won’t coddle him when he never listens to anything I say.”

So Steve’s love comes with conditions. Clint is not sure where this thought comes from, but it chills him to the bone. It always hurts when one’s heroes reveal themselves as human.

“Up until now he has given very good advice,” Clint remarks quietly, only to achieve that Steve looks like he is going to yell at him next.

He does not, though, but leans his head against the concrete in his back and sighs, faltering slightly. “It’s just the way he goes about it. Like we owe him. He just doesn’t care.”

Clint thinks he has never met two men who manage to talk at cross purposes so completely, and all the time. But there is no use arguing about it down here, where they are all on edge.

“We need to work together,” Clint says simply, not hiding the hint of pleading in his voice.

And still, Steve does not give an inch. “Tell that to Stark.”

Giving up, Clint leans back and does not answer anything further, deciding that this is a problem for someone else to solve. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a hint of red and gold, hovering just around the corner, which has to be the armour. It is very, very still, and remains so for a long minute after they stop talking. Clint is just about to call out, to make sure that – physically – everything is okay, when the armour jerks out of view and quiet footsteps move away from them.

So Tony has heard; not just Steve’s first outburst but the whole inglorious conversation. Clint’s caution will likely be seen as silent agreement and Tony will find his fears, once again, proven true.

Clint almost wishes for a second explosion. Anything to tear down the ceiling and give them a way out. Because this will certainly make everything worse.

 

* * *

 

_He just doesn’t care_. Tony wishes fervently he could be like his father and just stop caring. He could hide away inside his own head and spend his days building new things without ever having to wonder whether everything the press and Howard told about him is true. Steve’s words would not hurt like bullets, and Clint’s half-hearted protest would not feel like betrayal. Tony does not have a right to their loyalty, and still he cannot stop yearning for it.

For a while Tony walks aimlessly, steps unsteady but never stopping. The world feels slightly out of focus, but he blames that on his reeling thoughts and not his deteriorating state. He tends to be a realist only when it suits him.

It takes him the better part of ten minutes to find the server room. As soon as there are keyboards and cables and humming tech beneath his hands, Tony feels almost at peace. Resentment simmers beneath his skin, so he does not take any time to inspect the system closely. He simply conducts a quick search for stuff that might help to take the bastards down, and wipes the rest. He unleashes hell unto the system, leaving a wasteland behind and some nasty surprises for anyone trying to assess it from the outside.

It helps to settle his racing thoughts, giving an outlet to his ridiculous devastation, and helps him catch his breath away from prying eyes.

When Tony returns, he has calmed down. On the outside, at least. He keeps the faceplate down, deciding not to waste precious energy on keeping his expression neutral, and dodges Clint’s questioning look, filled with something less sharp than before, almost tinged with worry. He shrugs it off, and looks somewhere between the two other men.

“I found our way out. Service elevator to the back,” he says shortly, not offering any other explanation. The less he says, the less he can do wrong.

Tony can do professional for as long as it takes them to get out. And then he does not have to see any of them for a while, until he feels like he can walk without the world spinning around him, and breathe without pain. No one will think it strange if he does not leave his workshop until the suit is repaired. Just a couple more minutes and they will all be free of each other. He just has to make it that far.

“How?” Steve asks, because he can naturally not accept that Tony’s intel is good.

“Wasn’t on the floorplan,” Tony says, thinking that these villains push the secret lab thing a bit too far. “But they needed to get their equipment down here somehow. So I went digging.”

Without patience for any more questions, Tony turns to pick Clint back up, who fortunately comes without a fuss, and marches off into the direction of freedom, not caring one way or the other whether Steve is following them.

The resolution of their adventure is almost anticlimactic. They find the elevator where Tony expected it to be, hidden by a fake metal wall, needing a key card to work, at which Tony merely scoffs and fries the whole thing after getting them through. To Tony’s relief, the elevator even still works. He was already half-prepared for a disastrous flight with only two and a half thrusters, but he is glad for any mercy bestowed upon them.  He almost laughs, too, when Steve positions himself as far away from him as possible in the small place, while still looking ready to catch Clint at a moment’s notice. As if Tony would let the archer fall down, especially now that they are almost out.

The sky is as beautiful as he remembers it being after he stumbled out of the cave in Afghanistan. He is so preoccupied with it and with getting fresh air into his lungs, that he does not notice Natasha approaching until she stands right in front of him – or rather Clint, worry etched into her usually so collected face.

“Everyone all right?” she asks, eyes skimming over the multitude of dents in the suit before settling back on Clint.

“Just peachy,” Tony breathes, almost giddy with relief. They made it. He can leave now and settle back into his penthouse, high above the ground with nothing but sky around him and the city underneath.

“No, we’re not,” Steve spits out, appearing at Tony’s other side. He is still tense, still expecting things to go wrong. It might be the mark of a leader, but to Tony it is just prove that Steve does not deal in contingency plans. “Clint’s got a broken leg, remember? Not everything is about you.”

There is the kind of venom in Steve’s voice that has Tony flinching, but he turns the movement into a crouch, so he can let Clint down gently. He should have gone looking for a better place, perhaps, than right in front of the elevator, in the middle of the street, but he needs to get on with things.

“I do remember,” Tony says when he straightens again, eyes lingering on the way Natasha is immediately at Clint’s side, checking him over. “I did carry him all the way here.”

“Then stop being so callous. You’re part of a team here.” Despite Steve’s accusing tone and the unrelenting glare, Tony almost laughs. Sometimes he thinks he is only part of the team when it comes to spending money and shooting bad guys. “Why don’t you try to act like it for once?”

Tony is half-tempted to simply walk off, but Clint reaches out to hit both their shins with his bow.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, like they will believe it any more now than the dozen times he has said it before. “Stop arguing already.” He exchanges a glance with Natasha, and they have a whole conversation just with twitches and surprisingly mobile eyebrows.

“Gladly,” Tony drawls, and decides that this is his cue. The relief of getting out of the lab is slowly draining out again, leaving him as tired as he was before. “Well, I’m sure you can take it from here. Great, then I’ll just –”

“You won’t leave,” Steve says, shaping his flat voice into an order. He takes a step forward as if to stop Tony.

“I didn’t know you cared.” Anger is not enough anymore to keep Tony focused. It is almost like his body reminds him that they had a deal to keep going until they reached the surface, and now it is done.

“I don’t,” Steve answers without hesitation, and that is that, really. There is nothing more to say, but at least Tony is not in a good enough shape to feel his heart break.

“Well then, see you later.”

Tony just needs to leave, needs to get to the tower and into the safety of his workshop. He has an extensive first aid kit there and a bed; he can peel himself out of the suit and make things better.

Steve says something more in his back but Tony does not hear it over the rushing in his ears. He all but begs his body to go on. He has made it out of the collapsed building, surely he can keep going for as long as he needs to get in the air and out of here. JARVIS can navigate the suit home and Tony can blissfully fall unconscious and deal with the aftermath later.

Distantly, he hears more angry voices but he needs all his concentration to set one foot in front of the other. One step, two – he stumbles, feels himself falling.

“Sir,” JARVIS calls out, and Tony has to smile at the open worry. He does not manage to answer, though, because that is when his body finally gives in to his wounds. Tony’s world goes blank before he even hits the ground.

 

* * *

 

Clint is on his feet in seconds, wincing when he jostles his broken leg but ultimately not caring. He is steadied by Natasha just long enough to make sure he will not fall down again, then she is off to rush to Tony’s side, who lies completely still on the ground, just a collection of metal soldered together, no evidence of a human being inside.

It takes watching all of this to get Steve moving too. Shamefully, his first thought is one of exasperation, questioning Stark’s ability to ever not turn everything into a drama. But he is this team’s leader, no matter his problems with individual members, so he hurries after Natasha.

“Iron Man,” he says loudly, turning on the comms too for good measure, because he thinks they should be working again now that they are on the surface. “What is happening?”

Steve feels himself reminded of the way their little adventure started: him shouting at an unresponsive Tony. It must be the suit. Tony said it was damaged, even though it seemed to work just fine underground. Maybe it has just run out of energy.

“Iron Man?” he snaps again. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Clint limping towards them, worry stitched onto his features. That is what has him wavering in his conviction that this is a simple mechanical problem, easily resolved. “Tony?”

“He’s been deteriorating quickly down there,” Clint says as he reaches them, and lets himself fall back to the ground, close enough to Tony that his skin touches metal. “I thought it was because –”

“Because he was trapped in just another cave.” Natasha takes over easily to Steve’s confusion. Again this business with the cave. But this is not the time to ask. “Must have been hiding it again, the idiot.”

Steve feels very much out of depth. What would Tony be hiding? Surely not if he was wounded? He does not know a man more inclined to whine about everything and nothing. As he sees him, Stark is not the kind of person to grit his teeth and shoulder on.

But there is still not response from the genius, prompting Natasha and Clint to reach out and tug at the suit, searching for emergency hatches they know have to be there. It is Clint who finally manages to open the faceplate.

Some part of Steve is still convinced they will be met by a smirking Stark, telling them _Gotcha_ , before flipping them off and continuing his disappearing act. That part curls up in immediate shame when Tony’s face comes into view.

He is pale, unresponsive. His left eye is almost swollen shut, and both stay closed and do not even twitch when he is bathed in sudden sunlight. The blood on the side of his face just adds to the macabre look. What is worse, though, is the multitude of alarms that are faintly audible from the suit’s speakers, toned down with the faceplate open but easily audible with Steve’s enhanced senses.

Only now does he feel panic that he has severely misjudged the situation. This is not a prank. Tony is actually hurt and did not say a word about it, and while Steve would like to push responsibility for that far away from him, he feels he has played an integral part in why Tony now lies here unresponsive instead of asking for help earlier.

“How do we get him out of the suit?” Steve asks, his voice sounding thin in his ears.

“You can’t.” JARVIS’ answer comes promptly, like he has just waited for his cue. He speaks from the suit and their earpieces too, giving him the kind of omnipresence that just underlines the urgency behind his words. “Energy levels are dropping fast, but removing it would cause more bleeding and remove pressure from several other key wounds.”

Steve’s mind reels. Energy levels, he hears and thinks of the suit turning into a metal coffin once the battery is dead. Pressure and wounds and – “Bleeding?”

Natasha gets up and takes out her phone, not waiting to hear JARVIS’ answer. A short moment later, Steve wishes he had done the same, because the AI lists a whole litany of wounds: concussion, broken right arm, luxated shoulder, tachyarrhythmia, dropping blood pressure, punctured lung, possible internal bleeding.

Steve’s head spins, like it sometimes does before he springs into action, but this time it does not seem to end. He repeats the list uselessly inside his head, and wonders how Tony could have hidden it and why, and how Steve did not notice anyway.

Later, he would like to say this is why Tony and he clashed so horribly down there. They were both tense and caught in memory, and Tony’s concussion and blood loss did not make things any easier. But he knows he is hiding behind that. The two of them are severely lacking when it comes to communicating, especially with each other. So, yes, Tony hiding his state of health on top of dealing with an emotionally demanding situation has not made their working together any easier, but Steve is far from being blameless.

Natasha comes back to them when he is still staring helplessly down at Tony’s body. “An ambulance is on the way for both of them.”

Steve does not understand either her words nor the significance of it. “Why hasn’t he said anything?”

It is a stupid question, and one that Natasha cannot answer for him, but she cocks her head to the side like there is nothing surprising about it. “He’s Tony,” she says and shrugs as if that is explanation enough, but elaborates for his sake. “He doesn’t show weakness. Also, would you have listened?”

Her face becomes a merciless kind of curious that hits Steve deeply. Is this what they think of him? That he does not care? Or that he does not care specifically for Tony?

“Of course I’d have –” Steve starts protesting, somehow lacking conviction but determined to go through with it nonetheless.

At this moment, a convulsion rips through Tony, mercifully releasing Steve from possibly lying to them and himself, but pushing him right into a different set of problems.

“What is happening?” he asks, then his eyes fall on the suit’s chest plate, which has him freezing all over again. “Why is the arc reactor flickering?”

“The collapse has compromised the suit, “JARVIS answers, not showing his worry except for the hurry of the words. “Keeping Sir conscious and walking has drained a lot of energy.” There is a short pause, in which Steve wonders whether he should ask for an explanation, but then JARVIS continues unprompted. “I estimate it has energy enough to power one more defibrillation, maybe two.”

Trust Tony to prefer building a defibrillator into his suit, instead of avoiding to regularly get into situations where his heart threatens to give out.

Steve decides he did not really want to know this. He looks for anything to say, but his throat is clogged up with reactions ranging from denial to headless screaming. Nothing audible comes out, but when his eyes meet Natasha over Tony’s once again unmoving form, her face both softens and reprimands him, telling him to pull himself together.

“Which means?” Clint asks, voice hard but so very faint over Steve’s heartbeat in his ears.

Again, JARVIS takes a moment to answer. Which, in itself, is cause to worry, since the AI was not built to hesitate. “Time is running out,” he then says. “The ambulance might take too long.”

That is, finally, what snaps Steve out of his stupor. He can deal with his failings later, with reflecting on whether he could have changed anything had he swallowed his pride for long enough to really _look_.

“Then we’ll get Tony to them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Tell me what you think.  
> (Two more weeks till my exam. I feel like I know less with every passing day...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not updating last week. I left my USB drive at home when I left for my exam (which was across country.)  
> But guys. Guys! I DID IT! I passed. I'm an actual doctor now. I still can't believe it, but I'm slowly packing up my books. I never thought I'd make it here, and yet - so, chin up, friends. Whatever you're struggling with, whatever hard times you're going through, no one can promise you that tomorrow will be better, but you can get there. Take one step after the other. Don't forget your dreams.

Tony remains in critical condition for two days – two very long days that Steve spends berating himself, although he fails to find an answer when Natasha asks what he thinks he would have done if Tony had told him about his state of health.

_I could have stopped riling him up_ , he thinks, even though they have never had much success with that in the past. In fact, had he known that _both_ his teammates are hurt, he might have done something brash, instead of listening to Tony to not make the situation and the building more unstable.

Still, they might have found medical equipment down there, had they looked for it, could have maybe done something against the bleeding. JARVIS has reassured him that, short of an actual hospital, the suit was Tony’s best option, but to Steve, it feels like he has failed his team.

When the message comes that Tony will likely not die, Steve has no time to feel his relief before he is already moving, big strides carrying him towards the medical ward of the tower, unable to believe before he sees with his own eyes that Tony is still there, still alive.

A nurse gets into his way when he all but storms down the hall, with a frown that would have usually made him reconsider his current plan of action. Now, though, it does not even register, and he does not slow down as he glares at her, challenging her to stop him. She resists for several seconds before she steps to the side to let him pass. Later, he might feel bad about this – he does have a healthy respect for nurses, thanks to his mother and his own childhood, which could be summed up in a bunch of medical terms. He will apologize later, once the burning need to see Tony has been satisfied.

Tony still looks like he is on the brink of death. His skin is almost grey, where it is not littered with blooming bruises, making him look like an abstract painting, begun with excitement and then abandoned. The hospital gown makes him look small and fragile, and it does nothing to hide the cast and bandages. Worse, he is still utterly lifeless. Usually, Tony never stops moving: hands fiddling, feet tapping, lips forming silent syllables. There is always something Tony moves towards to. All there is now, however, is the shallow rising and falling of his chest, barely even real breaths. The arc reactor, at least, is as bright and whole as Steve has become used to.

“Tony?” he asks cautiously. He is unsure whether he really wants Tony to look up at him, eyes dimming every time he searches for something in Steve and fails to find it.

“He hasn’t woken up yet.”

Without conscious thought, Steve whirls around, arms half-raised in what could easily become an offensive stance. He aborts the movement halfway through when he recognizes that it is a doctor who has followed him into the room, file in hand, looking at his charge with an expression Steve cannot interpret. The man looks harried, exhausted, but also determined, so Steve thinks there is still room for hope.

“Is that normal?” Steve asks, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds, even though that is exactly how he feels inside.

“We almost lost him several times,” the doctor says, not quite answering the question. “I’m honestly surprised he’s still breathing at all. Mr. Stark has not been a healthy man before this.”

Steve _knows_ that, but on a level where he has not fully realized it. _It’s a medical thing_ , Tony had told them, when they had first seen the arc reactor in his own chest instead of Iron Man’s. And Steve had accepted it as fact, since Tony spoke about it so easily, almost dismissive. But now he wonders how much of that was only for show too. Because the arc reactor is invasive. It is big and takes up more space than the average human’s chest can comfortably give. It is supposed to help Tony’s heart, but what about his lungs, his movement, what about a thousand little things Steve has never cared to think about?

Looking at the doctor now, Steve aches to ask for clarification. His blindness has almost ended in disaster this time, so he wants – _needs_ – to know more. He yearns to take the patient’s file out of the man’s hands to just get answers. But he does not. There is already not a lot of trust between Tony and himself, and he truly does not want to make things worse by prying. Tony might not tell him if he asks, but they have to somehow learn to live with each other because Steve is sure now that he cannot keep doing this.

“How long will it take?” he asks the doctor, who does not even twitch, despite the nature of the question to which he cannot actually know an answer.

With effort, Steve does not ask what the chances are that Tony will not wake up at all.

“That’s up to him,” the doctor answers gently, indicating that he has done his best, and now all they can do is wait.

It should be a relief, because Tony is as stubborn as they come, more perhaps than Steve himself. This is not how he would choose to die, not hooked up to IVs and with the heart monitor’s beeping in his ears, laying bare each stumble and pause. Tony would not leave without saying some witty last words, wearing a smirk. Stillness and silence do not suit him, so he does not deserve to die like that.

Maybe Steve would be able to believe this more if Tony did not look as he does, too small and pale and quiet, too absent already.

“Call me as soon as something changes,” he tells the doctor and does not add _for better or for worse_ , because only one of those can happen.

Even as Steve turns around to leave, he feels like he should stay. Tony might not be able to answer him, but maybe he can _hear_ , and there is a lot that Steve has to say to him. But he also knows that, if he says it once to Tony’s unresponsive body, he will not get himself to say it again. The two of them have always had problems communicating, but this is a conversation they need to have when they are both of sound mind. Until then, he just has to keep himself busy and think of what he is going to say, how to keep them from falling right into the next argument.

It takes three more days for Tony to wake up, in which Steve writes countless notes in between stalking the medical ward and obliterating everything and everyone involved with the underground lab.

When the call comes, he is still not ready.

 

* * *

 

Steve is not there when Tony wakes up, does not sit at his bedside, holding his hand with a worried expression. Nothing this clichéd. And despite the brief disappointment tugging at his insides, Tony is glad for this. Even before he opens his eyes, he feels the murmuring lull of the pain meds, keeping his thoughts slow and his emotions spilling out. This is not exactly the state of mind appropriate for a shouting match with Captain America. And, oh, he knows it is coming.

_Why didn’t you tell me,_ and _You endangered all three of us with your stupid pride_ , and so much more of what Steve likes to throw at him as if he truly thinks that Tony will ever learn, will ever become less private and more of a team player. He is usually quick at forming disparaging answers, but right now he is already flayed open. Nothing to hide behind now.

Someone must have called Steve, though, because not long after the doctors are satisfied with his current condition and the nurses have stopped flitting around the room, changing saline bags and medication charts, he arrives, too quickly for it to be an accident, and too determined to not know what is waiting for him.

Tony watches Steve hesitate in the doorway, expression carefully neutral, leaving him to wonder whether he is going to be yelled at or pitied. He does not have the energy for either of those.

“You’re awake,” Steve finally says, rather unnecessarily, but Tony knows the need to fill the air with something other than one’s own nervous energy.

He still does not come fully into the room. Reluctance does not suit their Captain, Tony thinks as he shrugs, wincing when the motion causes stabbing pain to shoot through him. He feels mostly numb, due to the pain medication, but every little movement aggravates his multitude of wounds, making him sore all over. Still, he has already demanded they lower the dose since he can deal with pain but not with being unable to think properly.

“So, I heard you were a real knight in shining armour and carried me home.”

Someone – probably Clint if the drawn hearts on the paper are any indication – has pinned a newspaper clip to his bedside table, depicting Captain America as he carries a lifeless Iron Man through the streets of New York, his face full of worry. Which is something Tony does not quite understand. He is not the kind of person that elicits worry in others, at least not _for_ him.

Steve’s answer does not help in the least: “JARVIS thought that the ambulance might not get there in time.”

Tony stares, waits for an explanation, but when none comes forth he asks, incredulous, “So you decided you’d just pick me up and run?”

This is a ridiculous notion, not the least because of the sheer weight of Tony’s suit – he has seen Steve handle heavier things, but only when it mattered, when it was important to a mission or helped a friend.

“Was I supposed to let you die there?”

Steve asks that so very softly that Tony’s immediate answer gets lodged in his throat, stealing his air for a moment but thankfully keeping it from spilling out. _I didn’t think you’d care_. Something in Tony’s face must have betrayed him, though, because Steve’s shoulders slump. He finally comes fully into the room, steps small and slow, carrying him towards the chair at Tony’s bedside, only for him to hover uncertainly when he reaches it.

“Sit down, old man,” Tony all but orders when he cannot stand watching their leader this unsure about what to do. He wonders whether Steve hears the implied _Thank you_ , too, which he does not quite get over his lips, although he suspects their ability to telepathically hear unsaid things only expands to negative words. They are used to thinking the worst of each other.

Steve does sit down, although his expression is now pinched in the way that Tony has expected it to be from the moment he showed up here. There is also something unreadable in his eyes that Tony is not sure he wants to decipher. Leaning back in the chair, Steve simply takes Tony in for a long minute, looking at the bruises and the cast around his arm and, last of all, at his face.

“How are you?” he then asks, sounding tired.

Tony snorts. Are they going to do small talk now? Steve is never usually interested in that but rather jumps at the slightest chance to continue any of their many arguments.

“Splendid,” Tony answers, wishing they would just get on with things. Fortunately, he has the unique talent to rile Steve up in a manner of minutes, no matter the given subject. “The room service isn’t quite up to par, and the mattress is hard enough to have me hurting all over. Also, I fear they’ve spiked the water; it’s made me all wobbly, so don’t accept any.”

Tony could ramble on, but Steve’s forehead is already creasing into its usual frown, making him hope they can finally get on with the real conversation.

“How are you really feeling?” Steve asks, still so infuriatingly calm. His eyes never stray from Tony, like he is trying very hard to find something there, although Tony is sure he will not, nothing new at least. He thinks they are doomed to rehash all of their old issues.

“I’ll live,” Tony sighs, then adds, slightly bitter, “I always do.”

This is a sentence that ought to be said with confidence, not resignation, but all the surviving Tony has done up until now was _despite_ , not _because_ of something. Right now, with morphine running through his veins, it is easy to admit that he would like to have something to come home to, instead of just going on because no one expects him to.

Very quiet, Steve says, “One day you won’t.” He sounds so flat that Tony does not know what to make of that, whether it is something Steve will rejoice at or regret or even blame himself for since he is wont to take the blame as easily as Tony does.

“Is that a quip about my age?” Tony drawls, preferring to resort to joking instead of facing the conundrum that is Steve head on. “Or are you finally beginning to yell at me for my recklessness?”

It is wrong, but Tony just wants to get it over with, because if he does not like to argue, he likes the moment leading up to it even less; the clenching of jaws and fists, the constricted feeling of clogged throats when words are swallowed down in those moments before all restraint is gone. The aftermath, at least, is something he is intimately familiar with, something he has soaked up with his mother’s milk, a constant bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He knows broken things, has experience with stitching them back together so they are more or less functional again. He has never dealt well with uncertainty, though.

The intensity of Steve’s gaze hits him like a physical blow when Steve turns his eyes on him. It is different than their usual arguments, painful almost. “I’m not here to yell.”

Unable to help himself, Tony scoffs. “That’s new,” he says, then berates himself for the surprise leaking through his voice.

He has heard this before. _I don’t want to argue but you’re making it damn hard._ And _We could have a good thing here if only you were less difficult._ It always boils down to him and his inability to fulfil the expectations of the people around him. _It’s not me, it’s you,_ every time.

Tony feels immediately lighter when Steve looks away, almost dropping his eyes in shame. “I’m sorry,” Steve then says, sounding actually contrite.

Tony does not think he has ever heard these words directed at him from their fearless Captain, and he blames it on this that their meaning does not register in his mind for whole seconds. The concept of their Captain being sorry in any situation involving Tony is just completely novel.

There has to be a catch somewhere. Maybe this is Steve’s way to let him down gently, taking part of the blame of why they did not work out as a team, but asking Tony to leave nonetheless as to further avoid such incidences. It makes sense. Enough so that Tony’s heart takes up on the resigned panic building in the back of his head, causing the beeping of the heart monitor to spike.

Steve jumps and turns to look at it, instantly worried, which Tony might appreciate more if it were not tied in with their end. He concentrates on his breathing while trying not to aggravate his broken ribs, to calm his heartbeat. He wants to end this conversation now. Nothing good can come of being forced to mull it over in his head.

“What for,” Tony finally chokes out, working around the pain from the bruises littering the side of his face. “I did all the dramatic collapsing and almost dying, by which I endangered the team.”

“I’m sorry for leading a team in which you’re not comfortable enough to tell us when you’re hurt.”

Tony’s first instinct is to deny everything, to make a snide comment or a joke, and make the whole topic disappear. This is it; the whole _you’re not fit to be part of a team of heroes, so you had better stop pretending you’re anything other than a spoilt rich brat_. This time there is no use in trying to keep his heartbeat low – damn Steve to come to him when he is basically plugged into a lie detector. _Listen live to Tony Stark’s heart breaking while he is thrown out of the Avengers._

Blood rushes in his ears, and it is not only due to his broken ribs that fresh air refuses to enter his lungs. Tony is sure he is on the verge of another collapse – _what a way to go_ – when Steve calls out for him, seemingly from far away.

“Tony.” _Stark. Shellhead. Boy. Merchant of Death. Iron Man._

He has had so many names, tried to be any one of them. And he failed every time.

“Tony,” Steve tries again, and this time Tony latches onto it. There is no use in delaying the inevitable. With enormous effort, he pulls himself back to the present, back into the hospital bed and the bruised body that does not hurt as much as his very being does. Then, with a feeling of digging his own grave, he settles his eyes back on Steve, not ready to receive his judgement but opening his arms to it nonetheless.

“I heard you,” Tony says sharply, then presses the tip of his tongue against his teeth, ready to wield his words as a last means of defence. If he is not getting out of this unscathed, neither will Steve.

But when his eyes find Steve, his anger deflates, because Steve looks as exhausted as Tony feels, and for probably the first time since they have met, there is not the usual disappointment, tinged with outright disgust, on Steve’s face. There is actually something like concern. Despite the fact that Tony really mucked up this time, Tony sees no judgement, no condemnation.

It is obvious that Steve waits for him to regain his bearing, for an answer of any kind, but Tony is at a loss for words. They are at a crossroads, or so it seems, where they can mend their relationship or turn around and walk away forever. Tony knows what he wants – what he has wanted since Howard told him about Captain America for the very first time since he has met Steve and he measured up to the stories – he just does not know how to go about it.

“I’m not exactly making it easy for you,” Tony finally settles on saying. Because this is true. As much as he fears he does not fit into their team, he has never really dared to give them the benefit of the doubt, since he did not want to deal with their rejection. There is no need for Steve to feel guilty about Tony’s shortcomings.

Tony wishes so very much for a clear head, for the medication-induced fog to disappear so that he would have an opportunity to deal with this conversation without every turn of it taking him by surprise. That way, however, his defences, honed by years of hiding behind masks, might have already kicked in and destroyed all chances for an amicable ending.

“You’ve given a lot,” Steve says pensively. His eyes drop down to his hands for a moment before coming back up, never once giving Tony a chance to school his face into something more detached.

“Rhodey’s been telling me for decades that money can’t solve everything.” And that, really, is all he has to show for himself: money, and an attitude to match. “It cannot buy the kind of friends one wants to have.”

Tony expects to see pity in Steve’s face. Even Rhodey had looked at him with pity after he scared Ty Stone off, and all his goons, only out to reap the benefits of associating with the Stark heir. And Steve’s face does change, but it only becomes more determined.

“You bought a house but made it a home for us,” the Captain says like it has been some kind of achievement, like he mistakes Tony’s instructions to the interior designer as kindness.

“That’s good, I guess.” Tony trails off, unsure where Steve is going with this, how to deal with not being called the villain, not even indirectly. Their dynamic was clear from the very beginning; he was part of the team _despite_ not _because_.

Naturally, Steve has to make it worse. “I consider all of you my family, Tony. Including you.”

He sounds so honest, not a trace of reluctance in his voice. It clashes horribly with the image that pops up in Tony’s mind whenever he thinks of Steve, the perpetually disappointed leader, looking at Tony as if he cannot grasp why he is even there. Unable to help himself, Tony laughs. It is more of a choked thing because his ribcage burns and his face hurts, but his intent is clear.

“Well, we all have that crazy drunkard uncle no one –”

“I know we have our difficulties,” Steve interrupts him, not at all apologetic. Bitterness gathers at the back of Tony’s throat, because there it is, the first hint of annoyance showing on Steve’s face. “But you are a valuable member of this _family_. We don’t just tolerate you. We’re not just staying for the free room and board. And I am sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Steve’s words and expression are at odds – imploring and irritated – and while Tony usually knows that the negative things are directed at him, he is not so sure now. Steve is not one who lies so easily, not to someone’s face. So Tony stares and stares, looking for a clue to help him decide how to go on, wondering whether this is not just a morphine dream, a hallucination making his childhood wishes come true.

“All right,” Tony then says, albeit hesitantly. If this is only a dream, he will indulge himself. “I believe you.”

In front of him, Steve exhales with a small sigh, looking relieved. “That’s good.”

“But?”

Tony’s hopes fall when Steve does hesitate now. In a dream, he would surely only reassure Tony that everything is well now, that their animosity up until now was a mistake, but they can be better. Here comes the catch, he thinks, feeling hot beneath the bandages.

“You’re hurt,” Steve says so very softly. “There is time for everything else later.”

Tony scoffs. The bruises do not impact his ability to think. Well, the morphine does, but he has worked around worse things. And he would prefer to get this over and done with.

“Like what?” he asks rather testily, but Steve does not even twitch.

“We need to learn how to talk to each other, not just yell,” Steve explains, a bit of the Captain shining through like he is actually intent on fixing this. “We’re good on the field, but everything else? I don’t even mean you not telling me about being wounded. That should be a no-brainer, but it wasn’t because we don’t trust each other. I want that to change.”

Even after Tony stopped believing in Captain America, at some point during his childhood, when Howard’s drunken raging had become too much, he still trusted him. Meeting him in real life had not changed that. It is the person underneath that Tony clashes with, although he guesses that is unfair. He cannot be angry at people seeing him as a different person than Iron Man but do the same to Steve.

“I’d like that too,” he finally says very quietly, but Steve is close enough to hear, and when his shoulders relax, Tony knows he has found the right answer for once.

Steve leans back in his chair, looking taller again, now that some of the tension has left him, leaving Tony to marvel at the fact that he apparently had such an impact on him.

“One more question,” Steve speaks up again, immediately causing Tony to become wary again. Here it comes, he thinks, the litany of _why_ s. “Although you don’t have to answer. What was all that about a cave?”

Squinting his eyes, Tony watches Steve for hints of mockery or anger, anything but proof that he does not know. Natasha knows, of course, and therefore Clint does too. Bruce has guessed. Pepper has managed to keep the details of his vacation in Afghanistan under wraps from the public, but they are at least somewhat a part of SHIELD, and it makes absolutely no sense for them to not inform Steve about one of the reasons his teammate is unstable.

“Haven’t you read my file?” Tony questions, in an attempt to gauge how much Steve knows. Because with the memory of walls all around him, sticky air in his lungs and the sky nowhere in sight, Tony does not want to delve too much into ancient history, lest he falls into another panic attack.

Steve cocks his head to the side, frowning. “It was mostly empty,” he says trailing off.

That has a small smile tug on Tony’s lips. After that first time of redacting Tony’s SHIELD file, JARVIS must have taken it upon himself to keep doing it whenever they tried to put things back to order. He is prouder of his child than he should probably be, considering that he has made a sport out of erasing government files.

“Better that way,” Tony answers nonchalantly, keeping his pride to himself, but also the fear of suffocating that always lingers close to the surface when he thinks of the desert. Reaching up with a bandaged hand, he taps the arc reactor in his chest. “It’s about where I got this beauty.”

It could be his imagination, but Steve leans slightly away from him, even while his eyes never leave Tony’s hand, hovering over his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, _again_.

The thought of Captain America continuing to apologize to him of all people, has Tony feeling light in a way that has little to do with the morphine. “Don’t be. Honesty can be hard because trust is a difficult thing for me, but I do want to try.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” For a moment, they smile at each other, honest, open smiles, no reluctance or bitter aftertaste, just an emotion that they know will be reciprocated. Then Steve stands, and Tony feels the loss keenly. “I should let you recuperate. The doctor will already have my hide for upsetting you.”

There is humour in Steve’s voice that Tony recognizes from dinners with the team and movie nights. It is seldom this pure when he talks to Tony, but maybe that is one of the things they could change.

Before he can think better of it, Tony says, “Don’t leave.” He barely keeps from flinching when the words register, so he quickly elaborates, trying to salvage his blunder. “There’s nothing to do here but stare at the ceiling.”

Steve laughs. “Only you could wake from a five-day coma and complain about being bored.”

As if reminded of his recent misadventure, Tony feels exhaustion slamming into him, blackness hovering at the edge of his consciousness even while his eyelids begin to fall closed.

“You can’t just let the future happen without doing something about it,” he murmurs, wondering whether he even makes sense anymore, already giving in to sleep.

“I’ll send in Clint and Nat later to entertain you,” Steve says, something like fondness colouring his voice. “Now sleep.”

Tony’ last thought before he sinks back into the heavy sleep of the physically and mentally exhausted, is to wonder whether this was all a dream after all, even though most of his dreams are not this pleasant. He is almost afraid to wake up again and see for himself, wishing to linger in this warm state of not knowing. Because he very much hopes it was real. Having a family, this family especially, has never sounded more enticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged this as complete, but would you like to read more? I've got no real plan where to go with this, but with my exam over (!) I've got some time on my hands.  
> So, if you want to make me even happier, give me some feedback. Tell me what you want to read. I'm up for nearly anything right now.
> 
> All the best to you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, friends, I've started writing for this again. I'm a bit rusty, but I hope you'll like it.  
> Thank you so much for your encouragement and comments!

The next time Tony wakes up, he is alone. A chair stands facing the bed and he can dimly remember Steve sitting in it, although he has almost convinced himself that the conversation they had was merely a morphine dream. He cannot explain it otherwise. Steve and he are not known for their clear communication skills.

That is a problem for another day, however. For all he knows, everyone will be back to bickering and watching for another misstep of his, and all the apparent goodwill he got for almost dying will have vanished again.

Testing for pain, Tony shifts his body. A stifled moan escapes his throat. The result is sobering: everything hurts. The arm in the cast is itching, his side burns with every breath he takes, his head feels like it is wrapped in cotton except for the occasional stings of sharp pain. He has really made a wreck of himself this time.

Well, time to leave. The only thing worse than being a miserable ball of pain, is to be a miserable ball of pain in the hospital. Breathing gets that much harder when it feels like the walls are closing in around him. How anyone can become healthy in such a sterile environment is beyond him.

With his teeth clenched, Tony sits up. That motion alone makes him dizzy, so that he slumps forward, holding his head in his one good hand. He is going to have to take this slow.

Before he manages to get his legs over the side, the door opens and Natasha comes in. Even with his swimming vision, it is unmistakably her. Her red hair is like a flame in the dark.

Unable to help himself, Tony briefly closes his eyes, wishing himself far away. He is in no condition to play word games and watch his back. It is not that he does not trust Natasha, but only out in the field. In here, Tony is still an outsider.

“We made bets when you would first try to flee,” Natasha says, her lips pulled up in a half-smile. A hint of scolding clouds her tone. Tony does not know what to make of that.

“With what money?” Tony asks, wincing at the scratchy dryness of his throat. Reaching for the remote control, he raises the upper part of the bed enough to sink against it without having to lie down completely again. It would not do to appear too vulnerable with a predator in the room. “Betting against the bank is never a good idea.”

He must still look rather bad, or Natasha would have reacted negatively to his jab. As it is, she lowers herself into the visitor’s chair and looks him up and down, lingering on the visible bruises. Her open scrutiny makes Tony more nervous than her silence. Natasha is always watching, always gathering information, but she is usually more subtle about it.

“How are you feeling?” she finally asks.

Taken aback, Tony needs a minute to collect himself. That is not a question he expected from any of his team members, least of all Natasha, who is their unchallenged champion in ignoring the needs of her body.

“Did you get hit too?” Tony asks, mock-concerned. “Do you have a headache? Did someone slip poison into your vodka?”

“Stark,” Natasha cuts him off.

There is the annoyance he is used to. Whatever game they are playing, Natasha does not have the energy to keep up niceties if they do not serve a purpose. Tony relaxes a bit. He can deal with the same old suspicion. It is that flicker of concern on her face – no matter whether it was real or not – that he does not know what to do with.

“I’m always fine, Romanoff,” Tony says dismissively. He rolls his eyes for good measure, even though that makes the dizziness worse. He does not quite know how long he has been here now, but surely this concussion of his should be better by now.

Natasha leans forward, never taking her eyes off him. “It’s okay not to be.”

“You’re about forty years too late if you wanted me to believe that,” Tony scoffs, wondering feverishly what is going on. He thought Natasha and he moved past trying to trick each other. Perhaps Steve sent her to make him feel safe before the inevitable yelling.

Sighing quietly, Natasha shakes her head. “I want you to take care of yourself.” She sounds like she is reciting one of the SHIELD manuals Coulson liked to carry around. “It won’t do you any good if you jump right back into the action without healing up first.”

That is what this is about, Tony realizes abruptly. His usefulness for the team is already limited. With Iron Man momentarily out of commission, it has just gotten worse.

“Don’t worry,” Tony drawls, tapping a rhythm on his cast. It draws Natasha’s gaze, which allows him to relax his expression a bit. “I won’t design any of your stuff when I’m not at the top of my game.”

Her head snapping up, Natasha glares at him. “You are an idiot, Stark.”

“Don’t I know it.” Tony smiles, tasting the bitterness of it. “I read it all in your report about me. Didn’t leave me with many illusions.”

Natasha is silent for a moment, studying him, until she sighs quietly. “You’re still angry about that.”

“Am I still –” Tony cuts himself off, unsure whether to laugh or dissolve into a screaming fit. “You know what?” he then snaps, “No, I’m not. In fact, I’m proud. The great Black Widow, master spy, trained by both the KGB and SHIELD, and whoever commands the Red Room. And you saw exactly what I wanted you to see.”

Tony likes to think that he knew something was off about Natalie Rushman from the beginning. The way she sauntered into his life, charming everyone close to him, complementing whatever personality he dredged up easily. With her in the picture, Tony had no difficulty at all to slip back into old habits. He had someone to perform for whose feelings he did not care as much for as his friends’. She helped him play his role, helped him to distance himself from everyone while dying. It should not have been as much of a shock that she had been playing him too.

“Why lie?” Natasha asks, sounding honestly interested in his answer. Tony does not believe for a minute that she does not know. Acting as a form of self-defence is her forte, after all.

“I didn’t lie,” Tony pretends nonetheless. “I’m exactly what you wrote about me. I make a habit out of not annoying people with being something more.” The words come out bitter again. She is playing some angle he cannot yet see.

Inclining her head, Natasha says, “I’m sorry.”

Tony blinks, sure that he has misheard. “You – what?” he asks when her expression does not change. She looks actually contrite, not the kind of obvious mask she dons when trying to fool people. It is more subtle than that, almost real.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Natasha repeats, no less earnest. “About not changing my opinion even when I should have.”

Unable to help himself, Tony scoffs. For a moment, he thought they were going somewhere here, forging a path to a new way to work together. This is a farce, though. He has tried so hard in the beginning to be more sociable, to let the Avengers in. They did not want to then, so he does not need them to try now out of misplaced guilt.

“Is this a thing now?” Tony asks, voice scathing. “You guys apologizing just because I’ve got some scratches?”

“You don’t have to downplay anything here,” Natasha says, as if his injuries matter in the grand scheme of things. “It’s not just scratches. And we should have apologized a long time ago. Without you almost dying on us.”

An ugly suspicion roars inside of Tony’s chest. What do they want? A cacophony of voices comes to life in his ears. Howard and Obadiah and the board of directors and dozens of faceless people asking for money or designs or his time or his body. _What more do they want?_

“I’m a Stark,” Tony says, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “We don’t believe in apologies.”

Natasha’s lips twist into something sad, as if she knows exactly what is going on in his head. “But you believe in actions. So we’ll be trying that next.”

 

* * *

 

After Natasha is gone, Tony gets barely an hour of quiet before the door gets thrown open and Clint walks in. Well, walking might be the wrong word because he balances delicately on two crutches, his broken leg sticking out awkwardly in front of him.

Tony wants to greet him with a comment about his apparent training with travelling one-legged, when his eyes fall on Clint’s cast.

“What kind of abomination is that?” Tony asks, aghast. He raises his hand to shield his eyes but then stops the motion halfway and ends up pointing at Clint’s leg.

Grinning broadly, Clint comes to the bed and lets himself fall into the chair, bringing his offending leg even closer. “My cast?” His pout gets ruined when he starts cackling, obviously amused by Tony’s terror. “Don’t be mean. Purple is a valid colour.”

_Purple_ is one way to put it. Tony would have said pink, the kind that radiates and poisons everything it gets in contact with.

“It’s hurting my eyes,” Tony moans, even while he cannot look away from it. Damn humans by being fascinated by horrible things.

From somewhere, Clint produces a sharpie to wave it under Tony’s nose. “Do you want to sign it?”

Looking closer, there are several autographs already decorating the cast as well as some small doodles. A lot of arrows are featured. All that is missing are some hearts.

“I want to burn it off,” Tony scoffs, leaning slightly away from Clint. He is definitely not put out by the fact that no one has signed _his_ cast yet. “Didn’t someone tell you that you’re living with a billionaire? Surely you can afford something better than this.”

Immediately, Clint’s expression turns smug. “You actually paid extra for the colour.”

“Of course, I did.” Tony nods, sounding defeated but not at all surprised. “You’re a menace, Barton.”

“I’m doing my best.” At that, Clint’s grin fades. He lowers the sharpie and turns it mindlessly in his hands. It feels as if they are down to business now, although Tony did not think that it would be Clint to berate him. “Listen, Stark, I wanted to thank you. For getting me out of there.”

Their banter was almost enough to make Tony forget that his teammates are acting weird. First Steve, who did not yell for once, and then Natasha sounding more honest than Tony has ever heard her. Now Clint is looking at him with an unusual amount of concern too.

Apart from Bruce, Clint might just be the one Tony gets along the best with. Theirs is not a very deep friendship, but they share the kind of humour that lets them get along well. Even dead on his feet after a four-day working binge, Tony can effortlessly exchange barbs with Clint or indulge in mindless pranks. They have something good going. There is no need to ruin that with unnecessary apologies or gratefulness.

“I didn’t do anything,” Tony says shortly, wishing they would all just get over themselves so they can return to normal.

Sadly, Clint does not get the message. “No, of course not.” He clicks his tongue. “You just made sure that Steve and I didn’t bring the rest of the building down on our heads. And then you carried me all the way out, even though you must have been barely able to stay on your feet.”

Tony is not the one who broke his leg, and they needed Steve to scout and fight. There was not exactly any other way to go about this other than leaving Clint behind, and that was never an option at all.

“That’s what the armour is for, yes?” Tony shrugs, certain that this is all there is to say.

Clint, however, looks at him intently. “The armour is nothing without you in it.”

Great, Tony thinks, a philosophical debate. Tech versus man. Logic versus abstract thinking. Too bad for Clint that Tony has won countless of these arguments – for both sides to boot, depending on what point he was trying to make.

“JARVIS would politely disagree,” Tony says, smugly thinking of how far his kids have come, and how often JARVIS has piloted the armour without anyone being the wiser.

“I most certainly would not, sir,” JARVIS chimes in, happy as always to contradict his creator while blaming it on being in concordance with his code. One of these days, Tony is going to dial down the protection clause. That has brought far too much common sense into his life.

“You can’t still be angry at me, J,” Tony whines, despite knowing that JARVIS’ memory and ability to hold a grudge are infinite.

“Stark,” Clint interrupts before Tony can change the topic. He then grimaces and tries again. “Tony, we’re all –”

“No,” Tony says sharply. His patience is running out. “I’m not listening to another one of these sappy talks. I mean, do you believe I’m going to throw you out just because Steve and I were yelling at each other again down there, so you think you need to play nice with me for a while?” He takes a deep breath but quickly resumes talking when he sees Clint opening his mouth. “If so, don’t. I realize I’m not known for being altruistic, but I never expected anything from you. So, don’t ruin this good thing we’ve got going.”

Despite this being a valid point in Tony’s mind, Clint looks as if he has bitten on something sour. It is as if they have all collectively decided to make Tony feel as if he has fundamentally misunderstood something about their arrangement. Although he cannot imagine what. Fury threw them together to save the world and then left not so subtle hints that they were supposed to do so again if needed. Tony just made it easier on all of them by offering a place for them to stay. He might be selfish and whatever nice adjectives Natasha found for him, but he is not going to risk the whole world because this team did not work out the way he secretly hoped it would.

“It’s not good, though,” Clint argues. Tony almost does not hear it because that sounds suspiciously similar to the voice in the back of his head that he has gotten so good at ignoring. “It’s – I’ve seen this kind of behaviour in SHIELD.” Shrugging, Clint taps against the cast on Tony’s arm. “Nat and I were lucky to have Coulson. He never sent an agent into the field before he made sure they knew when and how to ask for help. I guess no one did the same for you.”

This conversation is going too fast for Tony to know what Clint is going for, but his answer comes automatically nonetheless. “I don’t need help.”

This has been a mantra for all of his life – or at least it became on once he realized that no one was _offering_ help, no matter whether he needed it.

“And that’s where we disagree,” Clint says as if it is as simple as that. “You were hurting yourself.”

Irritation spreads through Tony, his oldest friend in the face of being doubted. “Are you even listening to yourself?” he asks, lips pulling into something too mocking to be a smile. “I’m Tony Stark. I’m a narcissist. I put myself above everybody else. I don’t hurt myself for anyone.”

Pepper and Rhodey have known him for far longer than the Avengers, and even they believe him when he goes all out, shoving all the painful little pieces of evidence that he cares where nobody can find them. But here comes Hawkeye, dismantling Tony’s façade with boldfaced stubbornness.

“You did. And you don’t trust us,” Clint says, then shrugs apologetically. “Which I can’t exactly blame you for, considering how we behaved, but don’t try to make it seem like this is normal.”

Tony is still hooked up to the heart monitor, which he only realizes once the beeping picks up. Both of them stare to watch Tony’s heartrate rise. With a disbelieving huff – why did he think having a conversation with a spy while being connected to a lie detector is a good idea? – Tony reaches out and pushes every button on the screen until it goes black, allowing silence to wash over them.

Still angry, he turns to face Clint. “I don’t care what kind of counsellor shit you’re trying to pull on me here, but it’s not appreciated. I won’t cut your funds and I won’t stop to give you aerial support with Iron Man. You don’t have to prostrate yourself before me. Nothing’s going to change.”

Completely unfazed, Clint keeps his eyes on Tony. “We hope it will,” he says, then amends, “We’re working on it. I’m just letting you know.” A first flicker of unease appears on his face. “Steve told us he apologized, but this isn’t just on him. We’re supposed to be a team, and we’ll try to do better at that.”

From the moment Tony started planning the other Avengers’ quarters, he has hoped to be included in Fury’s little boyband. Not just on paper. Not as a consultant. As a team member. Hearing it now rings just a little hollow in his ears. “ _You_ are a team,” he shoots back, steel in his voice, daring Clint to argue.

Clint smiles sadly. “You should be a part of that.”

Tony could easily list a thousand things he should be and should do. None of it has ever gotten him anywhere. Perhaps this is a fight for another time. Perhaps he can accept this show of goodwill from the other Avengers, even if he is not sure where it comes from.

Dropping his shoulders, Tony huffs. “If so, then I get voting rights and demand that you stop ordering pizza with pineapple, you heathen.”

For a moment, it seems like Clint is going to insist on hashing this out right now, but then he inclines his head. It does not feel like a victory.

“All right, Tony. I’m not going to push you. We’re serious, though.” Leaning slightly back, Clint adds, “JARVIS, just for the record, please tell us when we mess up.” He does not look at the ceiling, even though he has always done so when addressing JARVIS before, making Tony feel like he has been continually pranked until now.

“It will be my pleasure, Agent Barton,” JARVIS replies immediately, having the audacity to sound smug about it.

Tony scowls and orders, “Disregard that, J.”

He is not surprised when JARVIS does not hesitate to argue. “My apologies, sir, but I’m not going to violate the very first rule you’ve written into my code.”

_Protect Anthony Edward Stark_. Once upon a time, that felt like a good idea. The more people are around, the more hassle Tony seems to have with it, however.

Sensing that Tony is close to losing his patience, Clint gets to his feet, a knowing grin of his face.

“While you work on getting better, I’ll eat all the pineapple pizza I still can before you’re back in the penthouse with us,” he says, too cheerful for someone who has not won the argument he came here to have. “Sleep well, tin can.”

Clint’s exit might have been more dramatic if he were not limping, carefully navigating the way on his crutches. Even so, Tony watches him go, for once rendered speechless. 

 

* * *

 

Their conversation could have gone better. It has been days since Tony woke up, but Steve has not yet gone to visit him again. That might make a hypocrite out of him for first preaching about turning them into a real team and then avoiding Tony as he did before. It is hard. Even before Steve got his wake up call concerning his own problematic behaviour, Tony was not easy to deal with. Now, Steve has to navigate both their wounds, trying to not make it worse.

Several times, Steve has made his way to the med bay, hesitating in front of Tony’s door. He even went so far as to ask JARVIS whether Tony was awake, only to hastily refuse when the AI offered to announce him. He had shown good will by coming here, but actually going in is another matter altogether.

They have so much to talk about, so many misunderstandings to unravel, so many promises to make for a better future. Arguably, the first step has been made, but Steve knows it will only be harder from here on.  

Had Tony really thought Steve would throw him out of the team for – what? Almost dying on the job? Taking Steve’s jabs as if they do not mean anything and soldiering on? Getting them all safely out of there?

Steve remembers having a team that trusted him. The Howling Commandos were unconventional, and once Steve had proven himself to be more than a mascot for the propaganda reels, they fit together easily. They had been a team before Steve joined them, however. He did not have to turn them into one.

The Avengers are different. Clint and Natasha are friends, but they are not used to trusting anyone but each other. Tony might not be an introvert like Bruce, but they both prefer to work alone. Thor is used to being listened to, leading armies or brawling with his warrior friends. They are not a team. They are a unit of fighters with little trust between them outside of fights.

Steve does not know how to change that, how to turn the tower into a real home instead of just a base where they are waiting for the next call, the next battle. He is not even sure what his teammates hope to get out of being a part of this. He wants a future, as easy and as impossible as that. He wants to build himself a place in this new world. As for everyone else, Steve has ideas but nothing concrete.

Over the past days, he has spent an eternity in front of the nondescript door to Tony’s hospital room, debating what to do. In the end, he has always turned away and marched straight to the gym. Demolishing punching bags has always been easier than to deal with reality. For now, he can still blame it on wanting to give Tony time to recover. Tony is hard to deal with even on good days, but when he is in pain or bored or otherwise inconvenienced, he and Steve are guaranteed to clash. And that is what Steve is trying to avoid.

Steve is halfway towards his corner of the gym, when he notices Thor running through a training exercise with Mjolnir, while Clint sits to the side, eating ice cream and offering commentary. They see him before he can turn around and leave. He is not exactly avoiding the Avengers, but they are looking to him for change and he does not have any answers.

“Hey, Cap,” Clint calls, waving him closer so that Steve does not have a chance to pass them by.

They watch Thor finish his exercise in silence. The god makes for a strangely graceful figure, Mjolnir following his movements weightlessly. A crackling tension fills the air that has nothing to do with Steve’s nerves and everything with Thor instinctively calling home.

“Have you come to test your strength against me, Captain?” Thor asks when he is done, sauntering over to them.

“No,” Steve refuses quickly. He is not up for something hitting back at the moment. “I was just going to –” He points awkwardly in the direction of the punching bag.

“Beat your knuckles bloody, we know,” Clint says snappishly. “I guess that means you came from the med bay. Did you talk to Tony this time, at least?”

There is no mistaking the accusation in Clint’s tone. Ever since coming back from that mission, he has been quiet and easily irritated, likely blaming himself for not noticing that something was wrong with Tony. They all do.

“I heard he is already pushing to leave,” Steve says, indirectly admitting that he has not, in fact, seen Tony since that first time after he woke up. All the information he has, he got second-hand from the doctors or an increasingly cold JARVIS.

Disapproval flickers over Clint’s face. “Tony doesn’t like being locked up,” he then says, making it sound like Steve is already making wrong assumptions again.

Steve barely keeps himself from scoffing. “The med bay is hardly a prison.”

After sharing a look with Thor, Clint asks, “Have you asked him about Afghanistan yet?”

“Yes,” Steve insists, irritated by the fact that Clint always seems to know more about these things than he does. “He was locked up in a cave. But he’s home now.”

“Trauma shows itself in peculiar ways,” Thor chimes in. It is always surprising how grave his voice can get, considering that he is usually so boisterous, always wearing a smile. “Friend Stark has never unloaded much of the weight that has been put on his shoulders.”

Steve wonders what Thor would know about Tony’s burdens, how everybody is better informed than him. “If he would just talk to –”

“You?” Clint cuts him off, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “None of us have inspired the least bit of trust with him for that.”

“If we’re all at fault, then why do you seem to only blame me for it?” Steve snaps. All of this sits wrong with him.

Yes, he has grossly misinterpreted Tony’s situation down in that collapsed lab, and perhaps he could have been gentler before that. Tony is not innocent about this either, however. More often than not, he is condescending and impatient and ignores all their attempts at team building. Steve might have been wrong about Tony not willing to make sacrifices, but he is still not the hero type, too focused on things going his way.

“Because we’re not getting into screaming matches with Stark any chance we get,” Clint argues hotly, straightening his shoulders to look bigger even while sitting on the ground. “Because we don’t go out of our way to look for flaws. Because Stark might be a man of the future, but he is not everything that’s wrong with our time.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve replies through clenches teeth, “And I’m not everything that’s wrong with this team.”

At that, Clint deflates, but Steve does not get any satisfaction from that. He is just tired.

“Captain –” Thor begins in a soothing tone, but Steve has heard enough.

He whirls around and makes a beeline for the door. His fingers are itching to beat something, but he is not going to lay into the punching bags with Clint and Thor still there to watch him. Perhaps he will go running instead. If he waits until it is dark, no one is likely to stop him. As long as he does not have to talk to anyone tonight, he will be all right.

Although there is no outrunning the fact that Clint is right. He does need to talk to Tony, and soon. Tomorrow, he decides. Tonight he will go running until his lungs feel like he has asthma again. And tomorrow he will talk to Tony.

 

* * *

 

It has been four days – which, really, is an eternity for someone like Tony to spend locked up in a sterile room with nothing for entertainment but the beeping of the heart monitor, an all-knowing AI and the one measly tablet Pepper allowed him to have. In fact, Tony is not sure why he has waited so long to make his escape. Threats have no impact on him anymore. All his life he has gotten in and out of places he was not supposed to be. Lying in a bed with nothing to do will not help him recover sooner.

He has had visitors. More than he is used to. Pepper looked in on him, of course, berating him for taking risks before turning to business talks. He mostly indulged her because he knows she needs something familiar to focus on to keep from worrying. He loves her for still caring, even if him getting banged up must be such a familiar sight by now.

The Avengers, too, came by suspiciously often. All of them, at least once a day. Bruce brought food and equations. Clint came to show off all the newest doodles on his cast. Natasha sat down with him and read while he worked, giving him a viable alibi for when Pepper later asked whether he rested. Thor cooed over Tony’s battle wounds and told stories about his own scars.

It could have been downright domestic, if not for one missing face. For all his grand words and concerned expression, Steve never showed up again. The others were evasive when asked about that, and while Natasha’s face took on a vaguely murderous expression, Tony was not mollified by that. He knows liars. He had not thought Steve to be one, but actions do speak louder than words.

“All right, J,” Tony says as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The dizziness overcoming him with every movement has gotten much better already. Enough so, that he is sure he can make it unseen to his workshop. “I need you to be my lookout. Tell me whether anyone’s between me and the shop.”

JARVIS takes a moment to answer, which Tony knows is not due to him needing so long to check the Avengers’ whereabouts but to express his disapproval for Tony’s plan.

“Everyone is currently busy,” JARVIS then offers. “I suppose you don’t want me to alert them of your –”

“Nope,” Tony cuts in cheerfully. “No one gets to know anything about this until the workshop is on lockdown.”

That would defy the purpose of getting some peace. It might have been strangely nice to have his teammates’ company over the past days, but Tony cannot ignore the fact that this is all too sudden, all too forced to be a natural development. He is not their charity case. He has been taken care of himself far too long for that.

“What if you collapse on your way there?” JARVIS asks, his tone decidedly dry. “It might be prudent to not wait until you’ve mostly bled out this time.”

Tony allows himself a grin, feels it stretching his face to the point where it hurts his bruises. JARVIS truly is his masterpiece, leaving even the suit far behind him.

“Cut it with the sass, J.” He clicks his tongue in mock-impatience. “I’m injured.”

“You are apparently well enough to ignore common sense and make risky decisions about your health again.” After a short pause, JARVIS adds, “Sir.”

“Don’t you know me at all?” Tony whines as he gets to his feet in one less than smooth motion, ignoring the way his vision swims. “I’ve never had common sense.”

Considering his many years of experience with escaping hospitals, Tony makes short work of the IV line still in his arm and the computer monitoring his vitals. Then he wraps himself in his robe and marches towards the door.

“J?” he asks one last time, waiting for the confirmation that the path is clear before he pushes the door open confidently.

This is it, Tony guesses when he finally reaches the elevator and makes his way up to the workshop. He is on his way home. Steve did not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Just like last week, I'm open for suggestions for how you want this to continue. Since my brain is still having difficulties to understand I don't have to study all day every day anymore, it's slow going, but I'm very motivated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for you comments and ideas. I'd have never guessed anyone would want to read this story. You're my heroes!  
> (Also, I have not looked through this chpter for mistakes, so be gentle and tell me what you find. I'll busy the whole weekend, so you'll get it a day early.)

Tony hides away in his workshop for two days. Contrary to what he tells Bruce and Clint when they come knocking, he does not spend the whole time working. In fact, he barely manages to finish the repairs to the suit. Mostly, he catches up on what he has missed while being unconscious and stuck in the hospital room. Then, he sleeps, for hours on end and better than ever with the workshop on lockdown.

The constant visits of the other Avengers had been nice, but they have also set him on edge. Before, he has gone days without seeing anyone – sometimes with the help of JARVIS, but either way it was not hard – but there is always someone now. It is driving him crazy. Staying in the workshop forever has never sounded more enticing. Here, he can hear his own thoughts without interruption, and not mess up this newfound peace.

Halfway through the third day, Rhodey calls. JARVIS pulls up the notification on all the screens surrounding Tony, which is his way of conveying he is worried without outright telling Tony to go outside. When Tony hesitates a moment too long to accept the call, JARVIS does it for him.

“Honey bear,” Tony calls, pointedly cheerful even while he scowls at one of JARVIS’ cameras. “What can I do for you?”

“Pepper is worried,” Rhodey says by way of greeting.

They have been over this already. Tony endured getting berated for being careless with his help, and Rhodey pretended to believe Tony’s promises of doing better next time. Ever since MIT, they must have had this conversation a thousand times already.

“So she told you to make sure I let her in when she comes to yell at me?” Tony asks.

He saves his progress on increasing the resistance against piercing damage of the suit, and leans back in his chair. This will only take longer if Rhodey thinks Tony is not listening.

“You got hit badly,” Rhodey says, despite knowing how futile it is. “You should still be in the hospital.”

Tony scoffs. “Everyone is acting weird. I had to get out of there.” He is almost glad he has an excuse this time. Usually, it is just an endless iteration of him being bored, covering up how much any hospital-like environment stresses him out.

“What do you mean with weird?” Rhodey questions, sounding already sceptical. He is nice enough, though, to let Tony change the topic.

Grimacing, Tony tries to find a way to say this without sounding like a lunatic. In a way, this newest development is what he hoped for, after all. “Steve held a speech about being a team, and now everybody is apologizing and trying to spend time with me.”

This oversimplifies the matter. It is not so much that his teammates are visiting him, but that they are so very careful around him. Clint has dialled down his sarcasm and not pranked Tony once, although he has been the perfect victim, lying in a bed all day. Natasha turned all soft and protective, which made her even scarier. Bruce even insisted on taking breaks during science talks, no matter how distressed he looked at being responsible. The only one who has not much changed his behaviour towards Tony is Thor, but even he has turned up more often to spend time with Tony.

It mostly feels weird, like the calm before a storm, like Tony is stumbling towards an abyss he is not seeing and everyone is cheering him on.

Rhodey is silent for a moment, which either means he is worried too, or he does not know how to tell Tony that he is talking nonsense. “Perhaps they realized what a bunch of asshats they are,” he finally says pointedly.

“Platypus,” Tony whines, “don’t talk about them like that.”

“Why not?” Rhodey shoots back, utterly unimpressed. “I don’t care that they are supposedly heroes. They take a lot without giving anything back.”

Neither he nor Pepper are very happy about the Avengers living in the tower, although Tony does not agree with them. The team might be using him for his resources and tech, but that was practically the deal with Fury. Tony could back out if he wanted, but he wants to give the Avengers what they need. It would be really bad karma to deny the heroes the means to better save the world.

“They take only what I offer,” Tony says dismissively, almost wishing they could go back to arguing about him fleeing the hospital early. That fight is easier to win.

“That’s not an excuse. You –” Rhodey cuts himself off with a sigh. “Do you need me to come?”

_Yes_ , sits on Tony’s tongue, but he swallows it quickly. Rhodey has a job he loves, and while he would not hesitate to come if Tony asked, that should be reserved for emergencies. People being unexpectedly nice to Tony definitely does not count. Also, one of these days Rhodey and Steve will devolve to punching each other, and Tony is sure that is going to ruin all the chances he has.

“You never come when I ask you to,” Tony says, his pout audible.

“Because I’m working,” Rhodey says, then adds gentler, “but you’re still wounded and distressed, of course, I’d come if you need me.”

_Distressed_. Tony is a lot of things, but distressed is not one of them. He is not the damsel of this story. It cannot be so hard to fix this himself. 

“I’m fine.” Tony puts more conviction in his tone than when the Avengers asked because Rhodey has several decades of experience in recognizing Tony’s lies on them.

There is a short pause on the other end when Rhodey is likely debating whether he will let this slide.  “Just get out of the workshop, yes?” he then says.

Both of them know how ridiculous a request that is. That Rhodey voices it nonetheless is likely to claim plausible deniability when Pepper asks him later whether he knows why Tony passed out in the workshop _again_.

“And who’ll get the work done then?” Tony asks, just to be contrary.

“Tones –” Rhodey begins in warning, but Tony is done.

“Take care, platypus,” he says with a finality that signals the conversation is over. “Only I’m allowed to land myself in the hospital. You stay safe.”

Hanging up on his best friend does not hold much satisfaction, but there is a lot of work to be done and he has rested enough over the past days. Concerning his latest misadventure, he needs to figure out how to make the suit tougher. War Machine, after all, is more likely to be involved in explosions and Tony will not let Rhodey be thrown around and stabbed by his own suit too. That defies the very purpose of the armour.

And that problem, at least, is one he can fix.

 

* * *

 

If Steve had not seen the extent of Tony’s injuries, he would not believe that, a mere week ago, they had not been sure whether Tony would make it at all. From the kitchen table, Steve watches Tony move as if nothing has happened. The cast on his arm is gone, replaced by a shining metal brace, barely noticeable if one does not know where to look. He does not favour his pierced side, does not steady himself against the counter while he waits for his coffee to be done.

An ugly suspicion creeps up on Steve. Tony’s nonchalance looks so practiced that this cannot be the first time he has been hiding injuries from them. Iron Man is always in the thick of things. They have all seen the armour emerge from battles with severe damages. And yet, they have always believed Tony when he said he was fine.

_That’s what the armour is for, Big Green. So that I don’t have to put myself at your tender mercy afterwards._

How often have they not noticed Tony getting hurt? The thought has Steve getting angry. Not only at himself but at Tony too. They have obviously all messed up this team thing, but they need to give each other chances too.

It has been three days since Tony slipped out of his hospital room and put the workshop in lockdown. Three days since any of them have seen him. Clint went to coax him out several times without success. Bruce left food. And Steve? He was mostly glad to get another respite from having to hash things out with Tony.

It should be simple. He could just walk up and say, _We both messed up. Want to try and make it better?_ They could simply start over. _Hey, my name is Steve Rogers. Do you want to be my friend?_

It is _not_ that simple. Seeing Tony now, though, with his fading bruises and careful nonchalance, Steve decides that this is it. If they do not do something about this now, they might as well not bother at all.

“Should you already be up?” Steve asks. Only a moment later, he curses himself for it. He sounds snappish and irritated. Distrusting. He always does when he is at war with himself.

Tony’s face closes off. It is only then that Steve notices he was looking tired before. Now, there is a small smirk playing on his lips, his eyes cool.

“Don’t worry, I’m already off the good stuff. I’m not going to compromise the team,” Tony says, sounding like he truly believes this is what Steve is concerned about. “I’ll just lock myself up in my workshop and stay out of your way.”

Which is what he always does, hide himself, sneak around his own home like a thief. Steve once asked Pepper about this, and she said Tony would come out when he needs to. So far, that has only ever been for Avengers business, press events, the occasional meal, and mostly coffee. If Rhodes visits, on the other hand, Tony can spend whole days out of the workshop, so it is not like he does not want or need breaks. Steve thinks he and the other Avengers might be the problem.

He cannot simply ask about that, though. Already, it feels like they are facing off again. One thoughtless comment and they are at each other’s throat. Steve realizes how easy it would be to snap back, to try to tear down Tony’s slightly mocking expression. Steve likes to think he can learn, though. He takes a deep breath and gets to his feet.

“Sit down, Tony.” With a start, Steve realizes that Tony’s name still feels foreign on his tongue. “I’ll get your coffee.”

It is only because Tony must be as perplex about this turn of events as Steve that he lets himself be pushed into his usual chair at the kitchen table. Any other time, his flabbergasted expression might be amusing. Now, it only makes Steve sad.

Now is not the time for any grand speeches, but Steve nonetheless wants to make sure that Tony does not vanish again immediately, not to be seen for days on end. If they do not know how to deal with each other, they should perhaps at least try to be civil. Everything else might just fall into place.  

“Have you eaten anything today?” Steve asks, already turning to get a plate. “Clint left pancake batter in the fridge and Bruce cut a ton of fruit earlier.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Steve sees Tony open his mouth but nothing comes out at first. Suspicion joins the confusion on his face. It is almost like he does not trust Steve to do something this simple for him.

“I don’t need you to baby me,” Tony then scoffs, although there is not much heat behind the words.

Keeping his face neutral, Steve shrugs. “I would hope so, since I’m terrible with children.”

“I – what?”

Tony looks so surprised that Steve cannot help but laugh. Catching Tony unaware twice in a row must be some kind of record. He will have to ask Clint about that.

After rinsing out Tony’s mug, Steve fills it with fresh coffee. “Here,” he says, putting it down just out of Tony’s reach before he picks up the milk carton. “Bruce told us you shouldn’t drink your coffee black while you’re still healing.”

Tony’s expression morphs into one of horror. “Don’t you dare put milk in there.” He grabs the mug right before Steve can pour in some milk. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“On the contrary –” Steve says, leaning over the table with the milk carton, but stops when Tony curls around the mug to protect it.

It is such a ridiculously carefree picture that Steve does not have the heart to push his point and ruin the moment. Withdrawing, he sighs exaggeratedly and turns back to the stove, pretending not to see Tony’s victorious smile.

The kitchen is excessively equipped with all kinds of machines and tools that Steve does not know how to use, but he is sure he will be able to make pancakes without making too much of a fool of himself. He notices Tony watching as he gets out a pan and oil and turns on the stove. When he returns from the fridge with the remaining pancake batter and the plate of cut fruit, he hears a gasp from behind him.

“Wait, did Clint write his name on the box?” Tony asks, eyes wide but twinkling with amusement. “Put it back. Right now. He’s going to kill us if we take it.”

That is certainly a valid argument, because Clint often acts like he does not live with a billionaire and an endless supply of food.

“It’s all right,” Steve says nonetheless. “I’ll tell him it was for a good cause.” When Tony’s face remains sceptical, Steve elaborates, “He’ll be fine with it if it gets you to eat.”

Thinking that is all there is to say, Steve puts down the fruit in front of Tony but waits before he turns around again.

“So you want me specifically to be killed,” Tony whines. It is a miracle how carefree his face looks at the moment, even though his shoulders still hold some tension. “Barton doesn’t joke around when it comes to food.”

“Let me deal with him.” Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Here, have a strawberry.”

Before he knows what he is doing, he is holding a strawberry up to Tony’s face, hovering mere inches from his mouth. Once he notices, he feels blood rushing into his cheeks. What was he thinking?

Tony, too, seems to be shocked into silence. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Steve but, for once, foregoes making everything worse with a comment. Instead, he gingerly takes the strawberry from Steve’s fingers and pops it into his mouth.

“You gotta mix the batter again. I prefer my pancakes not clumpy,” Tony then says, pointing at the box that is still in Steve’s other hand. It is like he has decided to ignore his protest from just now. “What are you waiting for? You could keep hand-feeding me strawberries but my stomach’s not going to stop growling until it’s had Clint’s pancakes.”

Following a sudden impulse, Steve picks up another strawberry and throws it right at Tony’s head, earning him an honest smile. This might not be so hard, Steve thinks, daring to be hopeful. He will just have to ignore Tony’s last name and that he can dial up his arrogance to unbearable levels in under a second, and treat him like he would his other friends, ignoring the baggage between them.

Surely, they will have another fall-out soon enough, but until then, Steve can try to mend some bridges. Smiling, he turns towards the stove and hopes that the smell of pancakes will not bring Clint’s wrath down on them.

 

* * *

 

They are in the in the middle of dinner when the Avengers’ alarm blares through the building. For a moment, nothing happens but quiet sighs and shared _looks_ over their full plates before everyone jumps into motion.

“What’s happening, J?” Tony asks, flicking his hand to make a holoscreen appear right over the dinner table. It shows footage of a burning building, a misshaped robots bursting through the flames.

“A number of robots have attacked a warehouse at the docks,” JARVIS answers as a map appears on the screen, showing their destination. “No civilian casualties have been reported.”

“Whose warehouse is it?” Tony is leaning forward, tracking the map to see whether anyone is stupid enough to attack his property with cheap knock-offs of the Iron Man suit.

“Hammer Industries.”

Tony allows himself a small grin before his expression turns into something properly serious. “Send up a suit, J.”

That is when he notices that the rest of the Avengers has stopped their busy movements and turned their attention from the screen towards him. Here it comes, he thinks, although he is not sure what he has done wrong now. Perhaps they think these are his bots or they want to lecture him about his inappropriate glee at seeing Justin’s property on fire.

“Tony,” Steve says, slowly as if talking to a child, “you can’t come with us.”

Distantly, Tony realizes that no one protests. “Come again?” he asks, feeling his chest constrict. Here he thought he was still on the team, believing Steve after their heart-to-heart in the hospital.

“You’re not fully healed yet.”

Relief shoots through Tony that this is apparently not a permanent objection to him going out with the team. At the same time, he feels anger rising up in his stomach. He is done getting treated like he is fragile.

“Listen here, _Captain_ ,” Tony snaps, wondering too late whether he should not have gone immediately on the attack. It is too late now to turn back, though. “Just because you’re America’s spangled mascot doesn’t mean you can commandeer all of us around. I’ve been up and running for two weeks now, so I’m certainly healed enough to take out some robots.”

Steve’s jaw clenches the way Tony knows means he is losing his patience fast. He has almost missed it over the past days of relative peace.

“Limping around the living room isn’t the same as joining active combat,” Steve shoots back, voice hard. “You still have a broken arm too.”

Glancing down at the brace on his arm, Tony shrugs, ignoring the spike of pain that causes. “That’s what the suit is for. I can guarantee you it’s holding tighter than a cast.”

He can limit himself to shooting with his left arm, and JARVIS can make sure he does not re-break something while flying. It is not that much of a problem. Unfortunately, the rest of the team does not seem to see it the same way.

Steve has his arms crossed, staring down at him from across the abandoned dinner table. Bruce stands awkwardly to the side, eyeing Tony’s right arm with concern, but mostly looking like he wants to vanish in case someone tries to ask his ‘expert’ opinion. Even Clint and Natasha have stopped on their way out to get ready, wearing twin frowns as if they have ever listened to reason before.

“Don’t be stupid, Tony,” Steve says in that particular tone of his that has Tony seeing red. Then he makes it worse by adding, “Stand down before I have to bench you.”

Immediately, Tony stands taller and his lips pull into a smirk, ready to bare his teeth. “Excuse you, _bench_ me?” Tony repeats, venom dripping from his words. It is perhaps a good thing that the table is still between him and Steve. Otherwise, he might have just thrown a punch. “This is not high school football where you can threaten me into doing what you want. Without me, this show wouldn’t be running at all.”

Red crawls up Steve’s neck and the attacking robots are nearly gone from Tony’s mind in anticipation of the fight that is right in front of him. Right before Steve opens his mouth to shout back, Clint appears in their line of sight.

“How could we forget,” Clint drawls. “You shout about being our sugar daddy way too much for that.”

A forced cheer fills his tone that Tony recognizes right away as a distraction tactic to keep him and Steve from destroying all the progress they may. He is still unable to let this go.

“What are you saying, Barton?” Tony asks harshly. “Are you hoping to get some time in the limelight with me out of the picture. As a spy you should be glad that no one’s ever noticing you.”

Clint’s expression does not change one bit, but Natasha appears back at his side, which is a sure sign that Tony is treading dangerous ground here.

“I hate to interrupt your self-righteous ranting,” Clint says in a tone that clearly says the opposite is true, “but while you’re throwing a fit, I’m going to do the sensible things and sit this one out.” He ignores Tony’s disbelieving snort. “I’m not keen on breaking my other leg too.”

The ripple going through the room is subtle, but Tony has been taught to notice these things since he could walk. Natasha’s face stays impassive. Her eyes flicker over to Clint, though, and then she nods a bit too nonchalantly to have known about what Clint would say.

Steve, naturally, is a hopeless cause when it comes to hiding his emotions. He first frowns at Clint as if he has forgotten that they have two injured team members at the moment. Then outright confusion crystallizes on his face at Clint having suddenly developed something resembling common sense.

The decision to stay back is obviously not something Clint entertained before Tony made his case to go out, injured or not. Yet, he has changed his mind, suddenly and in a way that puts Tony in an altogether more difficult position. To insist on going now would just make him seem childish and contrary. What would it make him if Clint of all people is being sensible when Tony is not?

All eyes turn towards Tony, their faces expectant as if they think they can bully Tony into being reasonable. It is as if they think he has not upgraded the suit to withstand a far greater force than before. And it is not like he comes out injured out of every fight they have. Some robots doing mayhem in a warehouse will hardly get him killed. He does not need to be coddled like that.

“All right,” Tony finally says, barely believing the words falling from his lips. “Legolas and I will follow your progress from here. But don’t let pride keep you from calling for backup.”

For a moment, complete silence engulfs them as if no one is sure they heard right. Tony Stark giving up an argument? Unheard of.

“If this matter is settled,” JARVIS speaks up, sounding slightly smug. Tony will forgive him for that if he managed to capture the Avengers’ faces from a good angle. That will surely cheer him up on dreary days. “The fire has spread to another warehouse. The fire brigade is on their way, but you should perhaps deal with the robots first.”

The spell broken, everyone but Clint and Tony gets back into motion, running off to get their gear. Steve hesitates briefly in the doorway, glancing at where they stand over their abandoned dinner. He looks like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it.

Soon, Clint and Tony are the only ones left in the tower. With a huff, Tony sits back down and stares at his food before he waves at the screen, splitting it into a more tactical layout where they can see their teammates’ vitals as well as what is going on out there.

“That wasn’t so hard, right?” Clint asks as he reclaims his chair too. Now that everyone is gone, he looks a little lost as if he cannot believe he took himself out of the equation, just like that.

“Be careful where you step, Barton,” Tony growls, although his heart is not in it. “There’s plenty of chances to break your other leg inside the tower too.”

That puts an excited grin on Clint’s face. “Will you build me robot legs if I do?”

Fighting against the smile threatening to overtake his lips, Tony flips Clint off and concentrates on the screen in front of him.

“J, patch us into the comms.”

 

* * *

 

They did not call for backup. Even with Bruce standing by, the remaining three took out the robots without difficulties. Tony is just glad that no one comments on that when they come home. He is not so sure he would deal well with outright hearing that he was not needed.

Steve and he diplomatically avoid talking to each other, lest either of them says something wrong and they do start a fight after all. Sometimes, Tony knows, it is easier to just let things go, even though he is very bad at doing so.

As soon as it becomes clear that everyone is all right, Tony withdraws into his workshop, deciding not to push his luck. Tech is so much easier to deal with.

The whole night, he cannot stop himself from mulling the argument over. Why did Steve insist on Tony staying behind? He is injured, yes, but he has fought with wounds before. It could be concern for his wellbeing. Far more likely is that Steve was worried Tony would be a liability out in the field and get someone else hurt. Before today, Steve had never been too shy to say that outright, though. It has never even been implied.

If they were afraid Tony’s performance would suffer because of his injuries, Clint would have surely opted to keep an eye on Tony out there instead of emotionally blackmailing him by staying back too.

Tony knows what answer he is hoping for, but he does not find any evidence for it. It does not console him that there is no proof otherwise either.

Late that night, when he exits the workshop, Tony finds a piece of paper lying innocently on the floor, face down, abandoned.

“What is that, J?” he asks, no stranger to pranks and death threats. He is not in the mood for either of those, however.

“Captain Rogers left this for you earlier tonight.”

That rules out the prank. Their fearless leader might have a sense of humour hidden somewhere beneath his stern façade, but it usually does not come out where Tony is involved and not on as low a level as this.

Gingerly, he bends down to pick it up. His ribs still protest the movement, and since no one is watching, Tony rubs his hurting side before flipping the page over.

It is a drawing, pencil, no colours. More so, it is a drawing of him – or Iron Man – and Hawkeye riding on his back. The suit is severely damaged, and even in black and white, trickles of blood are visible through the cracks in the metal. It looks worse than it actually was down there in that lab. More surprising is the fierceness with which Hawkeye wields his bow, protecting Iron Man’s six. In the background, barely visible, is Steve’s shield, taking out enemies approaching from where neither Iron Man nor Hawkeye can see them.

It is like a dream, the three of them working together, creating a unit. Iron Man is obviously in the centre of the picture, and that in itself does not sit right with him. Tony wonders what Steve is trying to tell him with this. It is a message, though, he is sure of that. Especially after their near-fight earlier.

That mission in the lab was a turning point. Even with everyone being so careful around him now, Tony is not sure it was one for the better. Every interaction he has with the team now is so confusing.

“Did he say anything about this?” Tony asks Jarvis, turning the drawing over, even though he knows he did not miss any writing on its back.

“Just to make sure you’d notice it.” JARVIS sounds vaguely amused, likely by their very human antics and inability to communicate without leaving everyone more confused than before.

If JARVIS knows more, he does not offer to tell, and Tony does not ask.

On a whim, Tony turns around and goes back into the workshop. Finding some tape, he puts the drawing on the wall next to his worktable. Maybe he will get it framed. Even if he is not so sure where he stands with Steve, the drawing is good. It represents something Tony has almost given up hope for. It might be nice to be able to look at it while he is working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Again, I'm open for suggestions!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments. You continue to make me very happy ;-)   
> Special thanks to [Rjslpets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rjslpets/pseuds/Rjslpets) for suggesting Thor and Steve have a little chat about how to lead a team.

Over the span of mere weeks, life in the tower has become terrifying. Everyone appears to be dancing on tiptoes around Tony, going out of their way to include him in team activities, annoying him to get him to eat dinner with them. Clint even thanked him for the new arrow design instead of silently including them in his arsenal.

It is like he hit his head and woke up in a parallel universe, one where he is not the Avengers’ benefactor, landlord and occasional aerial support, but an actual part of the team. As suspicious as Tony is of their motives, he is also scared of taking a misstep and ending up with nothing again. He hates that he is still so dependent on other people’s goodwill. He should have outlived that years ago. Decades even.

At the same time, everyone is so annoyingly overbearing. Where Tony could go days without seeing anyone before, he now has to employ JARVIS’ help every time he needs to make a coffee run and does not want to be delayed by making conversation. Not even the workshop is a safe place anymore.

For the third time this day already, someone comes knocking on the door to the workshop. Granted, the first two were business-related – Natasha came to pick up Tony’s new design of Widow Bites before she left for SHIELD, and then Bruce was stuck on an equation and came to bounce some ideas off Tony – but they usually communicated via JARVIS or text. Nobody used to come down here, leaving Tony to work in peace.

Now, though, Tony gets interrupted again, ruining his concentration. Pepper has been laying into him for being late with new blueprints and upgrades for the board. Fury always needs something done yesterday. On top of that, he is not getting enough work in on the new suit. If he asked JARVIS, he would probably get to hear that his irritability stems from two nights without sleep, but he has gone much longer before – just without meeting any social requirements. Somehow there is always someone around now.

What he finds when he opens the door, is a grinning Barton, waving a takeout menu in the air.

“What?” Tony barks, hoping against hope that this is about something more important than food.

“What’s your second favourite pizza?” Clint asks, either not noticing or ignoring Tony’s glare. “If I can’t have pineapples anymore, you can’t have your favourite either.”

Right now, Tony’s favourite is _silence_ with a side dish of _don’t come bothering me again_.

“I don’t have time to eat,” Tony says, proud of himself for not throwing Clint out right away.

“You have to eat, man. You already skipped lunch.”

Clint does not show any sign of being put off by Tony’s behaviour. Somehow, that has Tony’s irritation rising. Everybody used to be immediately offended if Tony behaved even slightly anti-social. It made it so easy to send people running when he did not want to deal with them. These days, it takes much more effort.  

“Stop following me around,” Tony says, gripping the door top stop himself from hitting Clint in the nose with it. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Not anymore,” Clint chirps, although a small frown appears on his forehead. “But the way you’re not taking care of yourself, you’ll be there again soon enough.”

When Clint limps forward, likely to push past Tony into the workshop, Tony does not budge. He does not have the energy to deal with anyone right now, much less Clint in such an exuberant mood.

“Fuck off, Barton,” Tony snaps. “I’m perfectly able to live my life on my own.”

Clint’s smile slips by another degree. With forced carelessness, he argues, “Several people in this tower disagree.”

Everybody disagrees. Even Tony himself when he is in a conciliatory mood – which he is not, right now.

“Well,” he drawls, “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”

“Why are you so snappish?” Clint still sounds more confused than angry. In his place, Tony would have already exploded. “It’s just dinner.”

Tony hates that he just cannot back down. He has endured worse things than dinner with his team in far worse conditions. So what if his nightmares are getting worse again, just in time with his home life getting a little bit more harmonic. So what if his head is pounding, the pain fuelled by lack of sleep, slight dehydration, several missed meals and stress. He should just take Clint’s offer, act like everything is fine for an hour and then he can go back here.

“I’m working,” Tony says nonetheless, barely able to swallow a comment about how Clint has obviously turned into a lazy layabout, who does not know what work is anymore.

“So take a break.”

Laughter rises up Tony’s throat, but he knows it will sound hysterical so he swallows it down. A break? He? He has not ever taken a break in his life, not of his own free will.

“You might be able to take a break,” Tony says, getting increasingly impatient, “but I’m the one who pays for everything around here and I’ve got a company to lead –”

“You have Pepper doing that for you,” Clint cuts him off unapologetically.

Of course, that is what it boils down to. Tony is a billionaire. He is living the high life. The time he spends in the workshop is not to keep his company afloat but just for his own amusement.

“And do you think Pepper would have any ideas to sell to the board if I don’t come up with them first?” Tony asks through gritted teeth. He should stop right now.

In front of him, Clint has moved into a more defensive position, holding his crutches between them like a shield. “Calm down, Stark.”

Tony merely scowls. “I’ll calm down once you stop harassing me.”

“Harassing you?” Clint echoes, taken aback. Soon enough, his face darkens. “My, here I thought we were being unfair to you, but you simply are an asshole.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Tony says, too tired to feel bad. “I never said any differently.”

Taking a step back, Clint huffs. “Well then, why don’t you hole up in your workshop and stay miserable?”

Time for the kill, then. “Oh, honey,” Tony drawls dispassionately, “I’m only miserable when you’re around.”

Pepper always tells him he is a hopeless idiot for lashing out at the few people who genuinely want to help him while letting everyone else have a go at him. As Tony watches Clint leave, though, he cannot yet regret his words. It will come, he is sure, as soon as he is back at his worktable and everybody stops coming by again. He will curse himself for opening his mouth.

In the end, though, it might be kinder to just let things crash now instead of drawing it out unnecessarily.

 

* * *

 

Clint storms off, fuming. Here he was trying to be kind and include Stark in their lives, only to be blown off so rudely. He cannot explain what caused the sudden change. Just yesterday they had been sharing lunch, trying to score goals by throwing peas into the hood of Steve’s jacket. Steve had it coming by expecting them to eat peas in the first place.

But now, Stark seems to be back to being the snappish, rude stranger they had first moved in with. From one day to the next. Well, Stark had been short with all of them the day before already, but Bruce had held a lecture about healthy food, assisting Steve in his campaign to get them to eat better. They were all a little grumpy.

Nothing happened that explains this crass change for the worse. At least nothing that Clint witnessed. Either way, there is no excuse for Stark to just go off like that. Clint was only going to get them pizza after all. Everybody loves pizza.

Out of habit, Clint goes into Natasha’s room first. She is always the one to calm him down, either by staring at him utterly unimpressed until he lets the topic drop, or by beating him up in the gym. Both are usually accompanied by wise life advice no one expects from a former assassin. That probably comes with being Russian.

Natasha is sitting on her bed in a bathrobe, her hair still wet from a shower, piled up in a dripping knot on top of her head. Whatever mission Fury needed her for must have been uneventful then. If things go bad or a little too well, Natasha is always restless afterwards. Now, though, she looks relaxed.

She naturally picks up on Clint’s bad mood the moment he opens the door and greets him with a raised eyebrow.

“Stark’s an asshole,” Clint says as he lets himself fall onto the bed next to her. He does not elaborate because that would mean to think about it and he guesses everything important has already been said.

“You let him get to you?” Natasha asks, sounding vaguely amused. It feels like she is blaming Clint for what happened – without knowing what exactly went down.

“I’m starting to think Steve was right all along,” Clint whines, peering up at Natasha, who looks at him with a private smile.

“No, you don’t,” she disagrees easily. “And Steve wasn’t. Stark’s difficult, but he’s loyal.”

Clint wonders what loyalty has to do with anything if Stark is simply unlikeable and difficult. “He’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles, expecting either a smack or a counter-argument.

Instead, Natasha stays quiet until Clint looks up at her again. “You didn’t let SHIELD be right about me.”

Now, that is unfair. Natasha had been feral and distrusting, but Clint had just known that she is so much more than that. With Stark, it is far more tedious to give him the benefit of the doubt. No matter how many layers one removes, there are always more beneath. That man builds masks like there is nothing to it, like he does not remember his own face underneath them all.

“That was different,” Clint says, although he already feels his annoyance crumbling.

As quick as Clint’s ire is raised, he is not one to hold grudges. Tony will likely end up on the receiving end of many pranks over the coming weeks, but Clint is already remembering the way Tony looked more than his words. The shadows under his eyes have grown considerably since the day before, and the workshop had been dimmed as if Tony could not stand bright lights. Most telling was the absence of music, which registers only now with Clint.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Clint says when Natasha remains silent, seeing that he has come to an answer on his own.

“Tony doesn’t know what to do with apologies anyway,” she laughs, then nudges him. “Either go do something about it or paint my nails. Just stop moping.”

“What colour?” Clint asks, sitting up. Then he thinks better of it. “Wait, I’ll come back to you in a minute. I just have to take care of something first.”

It takes him longer than a minute, but actually preparing sandwiches is far more work than having JARVIS order pizza. He is not sure the effort will be appreciated, but he is feeling better about doing something with his hands.

When he is done, he takes his goods down to Bruce’s lab, not surprised to find their other scientist still hard at work too.

“Bruce,” Clint calls, realizing that Bruce does not look any happier at being interrupted than Tony had been. He does not let that dissuade him from his plan, though. “Have you already eaten anything?”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bruce barely looks at him. “I’m working, Clint.”

“You geniuses are all the same,” Clint mutters, guiltily thinking that he does not begrudge Bruce’s dismissal as much as he did Tony’s, and that is not just due to the different tone. “I was kind enough to prepare two plates of dinner for you and Stark. All you’ve got to do is bring it to him and eat it.” He points at the plate to the right – which has a sad smiley face laid out with cucumber on it. “Also make sure he takes the aspirin.”

That has Bruce look up in confusion. “You haven’t done anything to that, right? Because Tony is not going to believe that I would prank him out of the blue.”

Internally, Clint makes a note that Bruce apparently would play pranks if provoked. That bears a more thorough investigation but at another time.

“No,” he says, “it’s an apology.”

That is when Bruce notice the card tucked into the corner of Tony’s plate. It reads, _Dig in, asshole_. With open scepticism, he looks at Clint. Then he merely shrugs.

“You’ve got a strange way of showing you’re sorry, but I’ll take it to him.” He takes the plates out of Clint’s hands, only to dump them on a nearby workbench. “Now, if you’ll just let me finish this experiment.”

Clint gladly retreats out of the lab. While Bruce is not as prone to cause sudden explosions as Tony is, he is just as much of a mad scientist. Also, Clint has accomplished his mission, so there is no need to stick around any longer. Now, he has Natasha’s nails to paint.

 

* * *

 

More than ever, it feels like they are all walking on eggshells around each other. Clint and Tony change between glaring at each other and being prank buddies, sometimes so often a day that everyone watching gets whiplash from trying to keep up with their mood swings. Bruce is withdrawing more and more often to his lab. Yesterday, he got up in the middle of them eating ice cream, muttering something about them _baiting the green_ when Natasha started cursing Steve in Russian for not taking her advice on the training regimen. She appears increasingly restless on top of that. It is hard to pinpoint how, because her façade is as perfect as ever. It is like she is regressing back into being the Black Widow, while they did not even notice she was more like herself around them.

Where, before, it had felt like they were slowly falling into place, all their pieces are in disarray again now. Instead of getting closer to an answer of how to make them a better team, Steve believes he is continually getting farther away from it.

Only Thor does not seem to waver in his course. He is still loud and cheerful and ready to stand at everyone’s side. Perhaps even more so now.

Steve cannot sleep. All these questions he cannot find answers to do not let him rest. He sits at the window in their communal living room, staring at New York below them, when Thor finds him. It is late and the sky is dark, filled with the tension of a building storm. It could be a coincidence, but perhaps Thor has his own demons keeping him up and he is just better at hiding them in the light of day. He is a god, after all.

“Don’t let your burdens break you, Captain,” Thor says quietly. His teeth gleam in the dark room as he smiles. “Nothing will get easier if you forget to breathe.”

Steve feels like he has been holding his breath ever since he pointed that plane towards the ocean, ever since he said his goodbye to Peggy.

It does not sound like a platitude coming from Thor, though. It is easy to forget how old he is since he carries a childlike excitement, a boundless curiosity that age seems to drill out of humans.

“Thor,” Steve says, having a sudden epiphany, “might I ask you some questions?”

Thor is not just a god. He is the son of a king. Surely, he understands leadership better than anyone else on this team. A small voice in Steve’s mind whispers that he cannot do everything wrong if Thor is still following him. It feels like everything is spiralling, though, and Steve is not beyond asking for help.

“Of course, Captain.” Thor does not sound surprised. With baffling grace for as big a body as his, he sits down across from Steve, face open.

“You – you have led teams before yes? Into battle?” Steve asks, feeling foolish.

Of course, Thor has done that. He is a born warrior, a prince, and has not survived over a thousand years through luck alone. 

Thor’s face remains gentle, not reacting to Steve’s blunder. “I have commanded armies. I was trained to be king,” he says, then inclines his head, “but yes, amongst my group of most trusted companions, I am considered their leader too.”

“How do you – How do I –” Steve suppresses the urge to hit the thick glass separating him from the city below. How is he ever going to do a better job if he cannot even ask a simple question?

“You are worried about keeping the Avengers from breaking,” Thor cuts in. His voice holds neither judgement nor humour. That is, perhaps, what finally loosens the knot in Steve’s tongue.

“We don’t trust each other,” Steve exclaims, then ducks his head, wondering if he might have offended Thor.

Thor merely hums in agreement, watching the clouds outside. The brewing storm seems to recede a bit. “When you sit and draw,” he then asks, “who do you think of?”

Steve is confused at the sudden change of topic, but Thor is looking at him again with the kind of piercing intensity he cannot ignore, no matter the apparent irrelevance of the question.

“I guess I’m thinking of what I’m drawing at that moment.”

He tries to draw the things that surround him, something to anchor him in this time. He is seldom successful for long.

“No,” Thor disagrees easily. “When you just let your hands fly and your mind wander, where do you go?”

The answer is as painful as it is simple. “Home.” The word itself is bitter in Steve’s mouth. Already, he sees their faces before him. “I think of my best friend, my – Peggy, my ma. I think of my old team.” Then the inescapable truth. “They are all gone now.”

It is still hard to grasp, that he could have crashed that plane and still woke up. Part of him will always suspect foul play on SHIELD’s part. Modern technology has evolved so much from what he knew in the forties, he would not be surprised if he learned they had simply cloned his body and pieced his mind together like Tony’s AI. He still bleeds, but that does not mean he feels particularly human. 

“Why do you miss them?” 

At first, Steve thinks Thor is mocking him, but his face is utterly serious as he waits for an answer. “We were a family, I guess,” Steve says, wincing at the past tense. These days, he uses it without thinking. “Bucky and I, at the very least.”

He is chasing shadows. Bucky died before Steve ever came here, and Peggy lived a fulfilled life without him. The Commandos too. All of them moved on. Only he does not seem to be able to.

“What do you know about our brothers and sister in arms?” Thor asks, changing the topic again. “What do you know about me?”

The questions catch Steve off guard. He has been briefed about his teammates, has read some of their files. To make better strategies, he has evaluated their strengths and weaknesses in a fight. They are all, in their own way, dangerous. That is not what Thor means, however.

“I – I mean, we live together,” Steve says slowly. “We’ve gotten to know each other a bit since moving in.”

He knows Natasha makes her hot chocolate after a special recipe but not where she got it from. He knows Clint sleeps in the strangest places when he is upset or exhausted but not who taught him the need to hide. He knows Bruce was no stranger to anger even before the Hulk but not who made him afraid of letting his guard down. He knows Tony hates being compared to Howard but has never asked why.

Thor nods as if he knows exactly what is going on in Steve’s head. “What do you know about why we’re here? Why we’re willing to follow you into battle?”

That, at least, Steve knows how to answer. “It’s the right thing to do,” he says, almost relieved.

To his surprise, something like disappointment flashes over Thor’s face. It is too dark for Steve to be sure, though. “Few people believe in doing what’s right. Even then, it’s seldom just because of that.”

Frustration rises in Steve’s chest. They are moving in circles. He did not exactly expect Thor to present him a clear-cut five-step plan to turn them into a functional team, but he is not prepared for a philosophical debate either.

“I can’t get to truly know them if they don’t trust me,” Steve says, feeling ready to give up. They work well enough as they are, perhaps they are not meant to be more.

“And we will not trust you if we don’t know you. Before you try to figure out how to turn us into a team that will follow you, perhaps you should consider thinking of us as yours first,” Thor replies without hesitation. Nothing in his tone or posture has changed, and still, this sounds like a warning. Then Thor shrugs and the sensation disappears. “I can’t give you answers, Captain. I can just offer you the right questions. You may come to me again when you’ve figured them out.”

That is a clear dismissal, but Steve remains where he is. He understands what Thor is saying. Actually taking the first step, however, is another thing altogether.

“I just don’t know how to get to Tony,” Steve exclaims with increasing impatience. He is sure he can manage with everybody else. With Tony, however, he always seems to take the wrong steps. “He’s so frustrating to talk to.”

Frowning, Thor looks up. “Why would you think that?”

Considering Thor’s attire and tendency to hit things with a giant hammer, it is easy to forget that Asgard has a technology of its own that is far advanced compared to what they have on Earth. Thor might not be a scientist, but he is used to technical marvels.

The thing is, Steve has learned a lot since coming to the future. He is good at picking things up quickly. There is no keeping up with Starks, though, neither seventy years ago nor now.

“If he would just stop belittling me for not having as good a grasp on modern tech as him,” Steve says, sliding dangerously close to whining instead of asking for advice.

To his surprise, Thor chuckles. This might be the first time this night that Steve has not said something wrong.

“None of us can completely follow Tony’s explanation of, to him, simple technology,” Thor says as if there is nothing to it. “Even Bruce’s expertise lies elsewhere.”

Steve wants to argue that his problem does not lie with not understanding Tony’s work but with how Tony talks to them about it. The condescension is grating on Steve’s nerves. Before he can get a single word out, though, Thor shakes his head to cut him off.

“They call you a strategic genius, Captain,” he says, honest interest in his tone. “So, tell me, what do you think about in battle?”

Despite not being sure what this has to do with their discussion, Steve thinks of how, sometimes, time seems to slow during a fight, and how his brain just automatically compiles information to form a plan.

“It’s less pointed thinking than just reacting to what is happening,” Steve says slowly. “It’s instinct.”

A flash of white shows that Thor is smiling. “So, if we started asking you to explain every order you make, you would get frustrated too.”

“That’s different,” Steve argues, berating himself for having fallen right into Thor’s trap.

“Is it, though?” Thor asks, leaning forward. “Can you imagine how fast Tony’s mind must be running at all times? What we struggle to understand is as easy as breathing to him.”

That is not an excuse. “So what?” Steve snaps. “You’re telling me I should not talk to him at all?”

Thor does not appear bothered by Steve threatening to lose his temper. “Perhaps it would be prudent to seek other topics of conversation,” he offers calmly. “You clash when you are talking about Avengers business because you are both accustomed to lead, although in different ways.”

Tony is not a leader, though. He has Pepper to take care of Stark Industries for him, and otherwise throws a tantrum when things are not going his way. Out in the field, he might be able to keep an eye on the situation, thanks to JARVIS’ processing, but his decisions are often a little too self-sacrificial to be viable. Tony is a lone wolf, but what they need is a team.

That is not the main point of what Thor said, though. Perhaps it is true. Perhaps Steve has never tried to talk to Tony about anything unrelated to Avengers’ business or their gear. They usually end up yelling too quickly for that and then avoid each other until some mission throws them together again. It has been that way ever since their first argument on the helicarrier. Whether it was the sceptre’s fault or not, they never recovered from that.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Steve says, although he is unwilling to admit that. “There’s already so much bad history between us.”

“If that were true,” Thor replies, sounding too cheerful for how glum Steve feels, “I don’t think you would have come to me.”

If not for their surprise encounter this night, Steve might have never approached Thor at all. He is not so sure what to take from their conversation either, since Steve has even more questions now instead of answers. Thor does not seem to think all hope is lost, though, so Steve straightens his shoulders and nods his thanks.

“I have to try,” he says, hoping he will know how to do that when the opportunity arises.

Reaching out, Thor briefly puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “That’s all we can ever do.”

Suppressing a sigh, Steve gets to his feet. He is not sure he will be able to sleep any better now, but staring out of the window will not get him any closer to answers either.

“Thank you, Thor,” he says, somehow finding the strength to smile.

“Whenever you need me, Captain.”

Steve is almost out of the room when he stops again and looks back. In the darkness, Thor is just a giant shape, illuminated only by the last traces of the lights of the city. He shows no sign of getting up to sleep despite the late hour.

Thor lost someone too, Steve remembers. Over his life, there must have been many warriors he saw fall in battle. More recently, though, he lost his brother. Loki is still alive but locked up, and surely betrayal can hit harder than death.

“Why are you not in bed?” Steve asks, unwilling to bring up Loki on the mere hunch that he is on Thor’s mind. Perhaps getting to know his team starts here.

It takes Thor a while to answer. In the silence, he looks smaller than he ever has before. “I thought it imprudent to grieve one who has caused much suffering in this realm in the light of day,” Thor says, his voice as quiet as Steve has ever heard it. “My brother has always preferred the shadows, so it might be fitting to think of him only at night.”

There is no satisfaction in being proven right, for Steve does not know how to deal with this. Offering sympathies when he wishes Loki’s punishment had been harsher than glorified house arrest on Asgard, seems wrong.

“You don’t have to hide your pain with us,” he finally says.

Thor shakes his head, something sad about the gesture. “I doubt that Clint would appreciate being reminded of his time under my brother’s care.”

That is certainly the truth, so Steve is not going to argue that. “Do you want me to stay with you?” he asks instead.

He feels terribly out of his depth with Thor, but Steve would stay with him all night if necessary.

“Go to bed, Captain.” Thor smiles. “You have enough to think about for one night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realized I have no idea how to write Thor (I guess you noticed.) I hope that scene wasn't as bad as I think it is.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support!  
> Beware, progress is being made.

Tony earns himself some weird glances when he arrives for dinner early that day. He comes marching into the kitchen with a smirk and a box that he drops unceremoniously on Clint’s plate. Without comment, he looks over Bruce’s shoulder at what he is cooking, then saunters over to his own place to bury his nose in a tablet while he waits.

He is aware that Thor, who is leaning against the counter while he chats with Bruce, has been frowning at the dark shadows under Tony’s eyes. Worse, when Steve comes in, he actually stops in the doorway to take in the scene. He does not say anything beyond a hoarse _good evening_ so Tony guesses they are good.

Things become more interesting when Clint and Natasha arrive.

“Tony,” Clint exclaims. His voice still holds a bit of a strain, as if he is not sure talking to Tony is worth the chance of them arguing again. “I thought you had fled the country when we walked by the workshop and no one was there.”

For some reason, Tony is touched by Clint coming to look for him again, no matter how the last time ended. He is not used to that. Rhodey has been suffering his moods for decades now but has always been prone to giving Tony room. Pepper, on the other hand, is not one for a tactical retreat. She might be all cool and professional to him for a while, talking about nothing but business, but she never let Tony chase her away.

Clint does not have any history with him. Once, they saved the world together and now they are essentially roommates. It is strange to find him _care_.

“You’re bringing Natasha now to threaten me into submission in case I don’t want to come?” Tony quips, careful to keep the bite out of his tone. He realizes that he should not have taken his frustration out on Clint.

Face brightening, Clint steps farther into the kitchen but stops across from Tony. “Easier for everyone around, yes? She doesn’t make a mess if she doesn’t want to.”

Tony refrains from saying that an arrow to the heart would not make much of a mess either. It is not a thought he has put much effort into. Out of everyone at this table, he thinks Clint would be the least likely to snap and leave nothing standing in his wake.

“ _She_ ’s also not discriminating who she’s going to beat up if you two don’t behave,” Natasha interjects dispassionately as she makes her way to her seat. She sounds almost bored by the prospect.

Tony shares a grin with Clint. It feels natural, as if they are meant for friendship, if only their conscious mind would not always set them back again. Curiously enough, Tony finds himself longing for it with an acute urgency sitting heavily on his chest. Barely being able to breathe is nothing new to him, courtesy of the arc reactor, but it is usually not because of something he wants.

Tony wants this. This team, these people. He wants the easy camaraderie with Thor. He wants to know that Natasha watches his back not to stab him but to protect him. He wants hours flying by unnoticed when he is in the lab with Bruce. He wants to fall into a rhythm with Clint where neither of them has to think twice about getting too comfortable. He wants to be friends with Steve, simple as that.

This is not only about proving his worth anymore, about making up for his mistakes. All his life, Tony has been searching for a place to belong. He has made room for himself wherever he went, commandeering everyone’s attention by being brighter and louder and smarter than everybody else, but at the end of the day, he was always lonely. This team has become more than another chance at redemption. With each passing day, it looks more like this could be home. Tony has always wanted a family. 

“What is that?” Clint’s voice rips Tony out of his musings. He has stepped around the table and found the box on his plate, staring down at it with the wariness of one who likes playing pranks and therefore expects them in return.

“It’s a new explosive arrow.” As soon as the words are over Tony’s lips, Clint opens the box and takes out one of the arrows, twirling it in his fingers with obvious glee on his face. “It goes boom. Don’t point it at any of us.”

Because Clint has never been prone to listen to anyone, he spins the arrow until it points directly at Tony. “Did you make me an apology arrow?”

Tony would have preferred to do this in private, but he guesses this team could profit from things done less often behind closed doors. It would not surprise him if Clint was very vocal about his anger over Tony’s behaviour the other night. If Tony does not want to destroy all the progress they have made, a public apology might help.

“I guess you prefer this over a letter,” Tony says, just barely managing not to sound dismissive. He is acutely aware of the rest of the team watching them.

“Next time, I’ll take both,” Clint remarks offhandedly. His grin, though, shows too many teeth to appear innocent. “Or, you know, you could use your words.”

It certainly is a new experience that Tony can hurt people by leaving them alone, by taking himself out of the equation. Up until now, he thought Pepper and Rhodey are anomalies.

“I was trying to _not_ provoke you into shooting me with your new toy,” Tony smirks. Talking usually gets him into trouble.

With careful fingers, Clint replaces the arrow and closes the box, nodding at Tony in thanks as he stashes it to the side. When he is back at his seat, his expression is a little more serious.

“Perhaps you should just put up a sign when you don’t want to be disturbed,” Clint says once he is seated.

It would have been too nice if they could have just let this topic be. They argued, Tony apologizes the way he knows best, surely that is enough. “The door was closed, Barton,” Tony replies dryly. “That’s usually a good indicator.”

Next time, he just has to initiate lockdown. The problem is that Pepper always finds out if he spends too much time locked up there. Tony has no particular interest in discussing the reasons with her. She has never liked talking about his nightmares since they usually remind her of hers.

“It’s your workshop,” Clint says slowly as if this is news to anyone at the table, “where things blow up all the time. I’d very much hope you keep the doors closed. What I mean is, tell me to go without the yelling.”

Tony pushes down the urge to answer something scathing. He _had_ told Clint to go. Several times.

“Perhaps I should have a look at your hearing aids then,” Tony quips with just enough sharpness underlying the words to warn Clint off, “since they’re apparently not doing their job.”

For a moment, Clint sits straighter but then visibly relaxes his shoulders with a grin, inclining his head to indicate he is not going to start another fight. Next to him, Natasha wears a private smile, barely visible if one does not know where to look.

With their conversation out of the way, a little more life returns to the kitchen. Conversations start, Bruce orders them to help with getting the food on the table.

They are all still trying to figure out each other’s moods and quirks. Tony will learn to keep his doors closed instead of going on the attack. Perhaps he will even find someone to distract him from his bad moods. Sometimes, Natasha takes him sparring. Sometimes, Bruce and he talk.

The Avengers are still a work in progress. Luckily, Tony is not one to give up.

 

* * *

 

Steve stands in front of Tony’s workshop, far more nervous than he ever was before entering one of the recruitment offices, chanting his chosen fake name inside his head, determined to be picked this time. Something about Tony Stark is more terrifying than the prospect of fighting a war. It feels the same, at times. A constant uphill battle where the ultimate goal is not even in sight yet.

That said, things are getting better. Steve is not sure he deserves any credit for that, but it is like all of them have decided to just become more patient with each other. Especially since Clint and Tony’s argument last week. Whatever it was about, that new explosive arrow design helped smooth things over.

If anything, Steve now feels like the odd man out. Natasha is following Clint’s lead and has softened her edges. Bruce and Tony are working better together than ever. For the first time ever, Steve sees the wariness in Tony’s eyes whenever they meet. It is buried deep but grows whenever they argue. It is not that hard to admit that Thor has been right. Steve does not clash with Tony just because they have differing opinions. Tony does not disagree out of spite. They really do not know how to deal with each other. Steve is here to begin to change that.

Well, he has been here for ten minutes already, standing in front of the closed door. No matter his inner resolve, his hand refuses to knock. He has already refused JARVIS announcing him, so he is stuck.

Without warning, the door is ripped open, revealing Tony. While he is wearing his working clothes, his face is one he usually dons for the press, a mixture between blank and smirking, drawing in attacks without letting them through. It is as if Steve’s mere presence has Tony preparing for a fight.

“What?” Tony snaps by way of greeting, then almost hesitantly changes course, “What happened?”

Before he came down here, Steve has prepared what he wants to say, a nice little speech designed to keep them from stumbling into yet another misunderstanding. The moment he is faced with Tony, though, all those words vanish from Steve’s mind. 

“Nothing happened,” Steve says quickly.

He instinctively takes a step forward in case Tony decides to close the door in his face. In response, Tony raises an eyebrow at him.

“What have I done wrong then?” Tony asks, crossing his arms in front of him.

The impossibility of their situation has Steve almost giving up. Ever since that first meeting on the helicarrier, they have been like this, expecting an attack and ready to counter.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Steve says.

He fights not to wince when Tony’s smirk grows. “That must be a first.”

Steve is sure this is meant to be provoking and he feels the immediate annoyance rising inside him, but he is here to forge a new path instead of walking their old one for the thousandth time.

Consciously relaxing his tense shoulders, Steve says, “I’ve been told repeatedly now to ask you about Afghanistan.”

Amazed by his own inability to stay on course for one whole minute, Steve almost misses the deep rotted misery flashes over Tony’s face before it closes off.

“And now you want to get it over with like a bothersome chore,” Tony drawls. “I get it.”

This time, Steve cannot find a single excuse to blame him for his tone. He is sure he would react worse if someone came to him and wanted to know about the Valkyrie out of the blue. Especially since Steve must be the last person in this tower that Tony would want to talk about is trauma to.

“No, I –” Steve shakes his head in frustration. “It’s like everything I say to you comes out wrong. It’s also hard not to make wrong assumptions when I know so little about you.”

“So I’m supposed to spill out my sad little life story to you, so next time you yell at me you can say something that actually hurts?” Tony scoffs. His expression tightens, making him look like he is one wrong word away from hitting Steve with the door after all. “Just a thought,” he adds in a scathing tone, “you could try that thing where you don’t assume the worst of me just because I exist.”

That is fair. Looking back, Steve can see how he did that every time Tony did, well, anything, whether he went off-script during a press release or changed plans mid-battle or just minded his own business in his own home. Steve likes to complain that people like Tony Stark are everything that is wrong with the future, but in a twisted way, Tony has become a sort of anchor for Steve, something to hold on to in this new century, even if it insults his sensibilities.

Taking a deep breath, Steve explains, “I would like to know so I can be aware of situations that are difficult for you even when you don’t want to say anything.” Remembering their misadventure in the lab, he adds, “Preferably before we get thrown into them.”

“Then read my file,” Tony says dismissively. His face remains twisted into something off-putting but his posture otherwise loosens a bit. “Natasha wrote it. It’s a fun ride.”

Steve knows about Natasha spying on Tony and not recommending him for the Avengers. That is not the main reason he disliked Tony from the very beginning, but it played a big part. If someone trained to read people assessed Tony as unfit to be a hero, Steve’s own feelings on the matter could not have been that wrong, after all.

“I want you to tell me what you’re ready for me to know,” Steve reasons, He thinks mentioning that he _has_ read that file will not get them anywhere. “I’d hate to make things worse for you. I want us to trust each other.”

In the silence that follows, Tony stares at Steve like he has grown a second head. Internally, Steve has to agree with the incredulity he displays. Trust is a very far-fetched wish. Perhaps not laying into each other every time they meet would be a more sensible goal for now. Withdrawing now would only make things worse, though, so Steve keeps his face earnest and does not budge.

“If this is a heart on heart,” Tony finally says, obvious mocking in his tone, “I suppose you’re going to tell me all about yourself too?”

He looks smug, like he is sure he has won this argument, like he expects Steve will just clench his jaw and leave. Steve is so tempted to give him that, to turn around and tell Thor that he tried, at least. Instead, he inclines his head as if Tony’s request is completely reasonable. Perhaps it is. Trust is a two-way street after all.

“What do you want to know?” Steve asks, careful to keep his eyes on Tony, both to show he is serious and to not miss Tony’s reaction.

Tony does not disappoint. His eyes widen just a bit before they narrow. He looks at the empty hallway behind Steve as if he expects someone to jump out and call “Prank.” When nothing happens, his expression solidifies into something harder.

“How close were you really to my father?”

Taken aback, it is Steve’s turn to stare. He has expected a lot of things, accusations wrapped in insults or Tony hitting Steve’s insecurities with one well-placed remark. This, however – there is something raw on Tony’s face, making his question seem like it is an honest one.

Steve is very aware that he is still standing right out in the open. Normally, the hallway in front of the workshop is not a place where he would expect people showing up all of a sudden. Clint has developed a habit of coming here fairly often lately, though. This is not the right place to open his heart, but he can hardly ask Tony to let him in. This feels like a test.

“We weren’t –” Steve begins, resolved to answer Tony’s question to the best of his ability. It is not as easy as it seems. “I mean, he helped me out quite a lot. He made me my shield. He flew me into an active war zone once. He offered me shelter. He was a good man.”

For all that Steve has spent his first weeks after meeting Tony for signs of Howard in him, his relationship with the older Stark was not actually that close. Steve’s years in the war were a whirlwind of struggling to do what is right and survival. He has made meaningful friendships there, but Howard was not the type to sit around a campfire and share stories. He was always aiming to impress, which he certainly managed. Steve owes him a lot, but that is basically the farthest they ever got.  

“All my life, he compared me to you. I was never measuring up, of course,” Tony says, the light in his eyes fierce. “He made it sound like you two were the best of friends, off saving the world together. He was always so disappointed that I was just human, while you, apparently, didn’t have any flaws at all.”

Immediate protest jumps to Steve’s lips to defend Howard. Looking at Tony, though, he realizes that this does not sound awfully much out of character. Howard might have always been good at recognizing the value of things, but he has never been a man of the heart. The few times they talked about love and possible families were mostly spent with Steve gushing about Peggy without ever actually mentioning her name. Howard had been curiously impassionate about that topic, although Steve remembers the word _legacy_ coming up.  He has never thought much about it since they had a war to fight.

“I didn’t know that,” Steve says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He has meant for that to stop a possible argument before it can begin, but Tony does not look mollified, like he has been expecting a different answer.  

“Don’t apologize for my father’s failures,” Tony says, distinct irritation in his tone. “The thing is, he told me you wouldn’t like me. And then, the first thing we do after meeting for the first time? We lay into each other. We do everything short of starting an outright brawl. If not for Loki’s brilliant timing, I’m sure we would have gotten there sooner rather than later anyway.”

“That was the sceptre’s influence,” Steve says slowly, even while he is trying to process why Howard would sow discontent between his own son and a man who was reportedly dead. It does not make any sense, but Tony sounds upset enough that Steve does not question it for a second. 

“Was it, though?” Tony asks, taking a small step forward as if to underline his argument. “I was already sure you’d hate me, and you were looking for signs of Howard in me. We were meant to clash.”

Put like that, Tony has a point. They never met each other from neutral positions. SHIELD’s introduction to the future alone had biased Steve.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t do better now,” Steve says, willing himself to believe it. That is the whole reason for this little standoff; to start over. “You’re not your father, and I’m not just Captain America.”

Steve is sure Tony will say no. He looks like he already has a rejection on his tongue, ready to hurl it and cut Steve out of his life for good. For the first time, that thought has regret rising in Steve.

To his utter surprise, Tony closes his eyes briefly before nodding his head. “All right,” he says. He still sounds like it is an undesired chore, but Steve will take what he can get. “J, schedule a retelling of my sob story for tonight. My room. Take a nap, Cap, and bring some popcorn. It’ll take a while.”

Not waiting for an answer Tony does close the door in Steve’s face now albeit gently so. For a long moment, Steve remains rooted in space. This conversation went better than he expected, even if the worst part is still ahead of them. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve realized that he has to leave and build up enough courage to meet Tony _again_ tonight. As if one time was not bad enough.

Just yesterday, though, he stumbled over Clint, Tony and Natasha sprawled over the couch in the living room, laughing loudly. He left before they could spot him, but their faces are burned into his memory. When he thinks of Tony smiling, he sees that shark-like thing Tony likes to throw at reporters, full of boundless confidence and the certainty that he is meant for higher things. This, however, has been different. Tony’s eyes had been bright, his face was curled into comfortable wrinkles.

Steve knows he will go to Tony’s room tonight and do his best to find an amicable way forward for them. Because, just once, he would want for Tony to smile at him that way.

 

* * *

 

Something is wrong. Clint notices that before he has even fully stepped into the kitchen. The only other person already there is Steve and he looks worn out, going through the motions of preparing breakfast with a far-away look on his face.

“Good morning,” Clint greets loudly, managing to startle Steve. While this would usually bring him satisfaction – everyone not named Natasha has a hard time trying to sneak up on their good Captain with his enhanced senses – it falls flat since Steve only mutters something under his breath and goes right back to mechanically scrambling eggs.

It is a mystery, and one that does not bode well for the team. They are slowly falling together, but another crisis, no matter of which nature, could set them back immensely. Clint does not ask, though, not immediately. People have nightmares and bad days. That does not mean their careful truce has to come apart.

Slowly, the rest of the team filters in. Natasha appears and drains Clint’s coffee before she goes and gets her own. She picks up on Steve’s mood immediately but does not say anything either, and merely throws a questioning glance at Clint. Bruce and Thor come in together, discussing what sounds like Asgardian tech. Of all of them, their friendship might have been the most surprising, considering Bruce’s rather shy and Thor’s boisterous nature. The more time passes, the more obvious becomes that it fits them.

Tony’s seat stays empty. That in itself is not very surprising. Their resident genius has never heard of a healthy sleep schedule or the concept of eating three meals a day. Sometimes he comes into the kitchen looking both wired and exhausted after an all-nighter to drown himself I coffee. Most of these days, Clint is sure he goes right back to the workshop. Other times, he sleeps until noon and is still cranky when someone dares to wake him.

He is very much unpredictable, and normally, Clint would not have paid much attention to Tony’s absence – they had lunch together the day before, so he has not holed up long enough to go blazing in with food and lectures. Steve’s behaviour, though, puts a new light on the scene. Every few moments, Steve’s eyes slid to Tony’s empty seat, which is just about the only interaction he has with anyone in the room. Otherwise, he just stares ahead and puts food into his mouth without sense or order.

Something, Clint decides, is definitely wrong. Just because he prefers to hit his problems with arrows until they go away does not mean he cannot be subtle, though, so Clint waits patiently until everyone is done eating. Then he looks meaningful at Natasha, inclining his head just so in Steve’s direction. Nothing changes in her demeanour, but, just a moment later, she herds Bruce and Thor out of the room under some excuse about training or some mission. Clint does not exactly listen because he is busy staring at Steve, who looks like he has not even noticed their departure.

“What’s going on with you?” Clint asks, turning in his seat to fully face Steve, who whips up his head, visibly surprised at being talked to.

“What do you mean? I’m fine,” Steve says, frowning when he sees they are the only ones left in the kitchen.

With some impatience, Clint clicks his tongue. He wishes they could just skip the games. With two spies on the team, one old god, a man used to being on the run, and one taught to manipulate people, few secrets actually remain so in this tower.

“You’ve been jittery all morning,” Clint explains slowly, “watching the door as if you were waiting for a horde of doombots to fall in and devour us right there.”

For a moment, Steve looks like he would prefer that over talking to Clint. “That’s a disturbing image,” he says, aiming for a dry tone. “Also, JARVIS would have alarmed us if there were intruders.”

“Not my point,” Clint dismisses simply. “Stop trying to change the topic.”

Again, Steve’s eyes stray over to Tony’s empty seat. It is probably too much to ask for subtlety from someone walking around clad like the American flag. 

“I –” Steve briefly bites his lower lip, avoiding to look at Clint. “I talked to Tony last night.”

Clint feels doubt pooling in the pit of his stomach. Those never just talk. Not without insults flying or battlefields being torn apart. “And the tower is still standing?”

A small frown appears on Steve’s forehead. “We didn’t argue. I asked about Afghanistan, as you advised. We just – talked.”

Clint very much hopes Steve did not open his line of questioning by mentioning Clint is responsible for it. Otherwise, all the progress between him and Tony might be destroyed. Again. “And?”

“And what?” Steve asks back, sounding almost irritated. That is not very promising.

Leaning forward, Clint asks pointedly, “Did you pressure him into it? How was he when you left?” Since Steve’s face darkens with each word, Clint adds with some humour, “Can we expect mum and dad to stop arguing so much?”

“I believed him,” Steve says with deliberate firmness.

Disappointment spreads through Clint. This was not the right answer. Questioning whether Tony’s trauma actually happened has never been the intention behind nudging Steve to take an interest in his teammate’s stories. This was supposed to make things better, to help them understand each other more.

“I hope that’s not all you took away from that?”

“No. I mean – He’s such a good actor. There is nothing in his file about it, and Natasha’s report too shows him as he was before.” A degenerate and careless billionaire then. “But the way he talked about it – I guess he should be more messed up.”

“He’s a Stark,” Clint says, unsure whether he wants to say that this means Tony is hereditarily a mess or that he just cannot allow himself to seem like one, no matter how he truly is. Leaving every party drunk and with two women in his arms might cause shocking headlines, but in the end, that is what people expect from Stark, what they _want_ to hear. Actual trauma, PTSD – that is still not something publicly discussed. More so, Tony likely does not even admit suffering from it to himself.

Steve looks down at his empty plate, rearranging the cutlery with a thoughtful expression. “How do you know about all of that?” he then asks, sounding lost.

Clint could almost pity him for that. “None of us knows _all_ of it,” he says. “I’ve never had a heart-to-heart with Tony either. It’s just obvious something bad happened.”

Then again, perhaps it is not. Steve lived in a way and never got to go home afterwards. The forties were not exactly a time where people could get help for dealing with trauma. Back then, soldiers went home and had to get back to their lives. And if they did not, it was _them_ who were faulty.

“You didn’t know him before,” Clint continues, knowing Tony’s playboy times will come up sooner rather than later. “I’m pretty sure a lot of his flashiness then was an act to, but one he lived fully. Afterwards, it wasn’t just SI’s weapons division that burned. Tony has a lot of issues. Some of them you could write down as a rich person’s quirks, but not all of them and not with how quickly he developed them.”

Clint wonders whether Steve is now cataloguing all the little tells that show Tony Stark is absolutely not fine, no matter how easily he seems to pretend. There are the fake smiles that have become so much sharper, and the instinctive motions to protect the arc reactor whenever he is in an argument, and the way he always fully faces an enemy although he must have been taught to always give an attacker as little chance to land a hit as possible.

Judging on the frown Steve is still sporting, though, leniency towards Tony’s character is still a way off.

“Why doesn’t he tell anyone, then?” Steve asks. “If he has changed, why does he keep up the act?”

The hypocrisy of that has Clint wanting to hit something. He almost wants to snarl back and remind Steve of how much he is not talking about his problems either. Everybody knows about the picture of Peggy Carter he sometimes takes out before a fight, or how he likes to sit up on the roof of the tower, too close to the edge, or how he spends their time out carefully not looking at how New York’s skyline has changed.

Nobody on this team knows how to deal healthily with trauma. Nobody just talks about it. Just because Tony’s life is much more public then theirs, much flashier and unforgiving, does not mean that he should get pressured by his own team on top of the rest of the world. No one cares for how the rest of them deals with their shit as long as they function out in the field. Tony, though, has to get up and face the masses. No one ever said being a Stark is easy.

“Tony has more than himself to think about,” Clint finally says, unsure how to make Steve understand that. Where he comes from, media coverage was nothing like it is today. One wrong word now and so much of one’s lifework can go up in flames. “How he acts and holds himself has an influence on his company and thousands of people working for him. He can’t just take a break from being himself. He can’t just become someone else.”

“He did, though,” Steve argues. “He stopped making weapons.”

“And Stark Industries only survived because Tony worked day and night to keep it afloat.” When Natasha came back from her assignment at SI, she had been impressed by that, by Tony’s willingness to run himself ragged for his company despite his obvious character flaws. “If he had changed who he is at the same time, neither he nor the company would have had a chance. People knew two things back then: that SI makes the best weapons and that Tony Stark is an incorrigible playboy.”

Clint understands the concept of masks, he grew up in a circus, after all. He does not particularly like it, nor does he have any patience for it, but he sees how they can be useful and necessary at times. Also, Tony has been donning his less and less when in Clint’s presence. That helps.

“Clint,” Steve says suddenly, sounding urgent, “what are you afraid of?”

The question catches Clint off-guard. They are talking about Tony here not him, and especially not about what Clint might hypothetically fear.

“I very much hope this is not how you started the conversation with Tony,” he replies dryly, buying himself time with a joke. “But in case that is, in fact, how you’re doing this, please let me be there when you ask Nat. It’ll be fun to watch her take you down.”

Steve does not smile. “No, I mean now. You’ve been disliking Tony for the longest time too, but now you’re defending him the loudest.”

Holding in a curse, Clint stares hardly at Steve. He is so tired of this, of walking in circles. Being thrown together as Fury did to them might have not been easy, but it is long enough, and they have done enough good, that it should not be too much to ask for them to just suck it up and become a team already.

“Tony’s still an asshole,” Clint says slowly, “but underneath that he is kind and loyal, and he deserves getting backup from us.”

Deliberately not looking at Steve’s reaction – because it might come to blows if he sees any doubt on Steve’s face, and contrary to public opinion he is not reckless enough to initiate a fistfight with a supersoldier without his bow or Natasha nearby – Clint gets up and gathers some bread and left-over pancakes on a plate.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, sounding surprised that their conversation is cut short. Clint thinks it has been going on for far too long already. He is not the type to explain everything in excruciating detail.

“To check up on Tony,” Clint says, rolling his eyes because that should have been obvious. “He’s the kind to bury his trauma. Spilling his guts doesn’t help with that.” He knows that intimately.

“I didn’t think –” Steve starts but Clint is tired of this.

“You’ve got us for that,” he interrupts with fake cheer. “You keep pointing us at where we need to hit stuff, and we’ll do the picking up again afterwards.”

He only realizes that might have been a bit harsh when Steve’s face falls. Things are not perfect, but Steve is trying, Clint has to concede that at least. They are all more or less stumbling around attempting to make this work. He is not going to offer an apology, but perhaps he will hold his tongue next time.

To his utter surprise, Steve gets to his feet too, expression morphing into something cautious. “Can I come with you?” he asks quietly. “I mean, you’re right, someone should probably check up on him. And I should –”

_Make more of an effort_ , Clint thinks but does not say it. Instead, he shrugs. “Suit yourself. Might do you two some good to have a buffer for your enormous egos there with you. Pack more of those pancakes. I’ll take the eggs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I'm leaving for a vacation today and I don't know when I will have wifi the next time. I'll try to get the next chapter up quickly - if not, I might have fallen into a volcano. Take care!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments and that you all still come back to this story.   
> Special thanks to HenHap who wanted to see some Rhodey content. Hope it doesn't disappoint!  
> Now, enjoy!

Bearing two plates of leftovers from the night before, Clint almost collides with Bruce as he is on the way out of the kitchen. He manages to save the food but curses loudly, causing Bruce to reach out to steady him while laughing.

“Are you all right?” Bruce asks, too amused for the situation. Food is at stake, after all.

“If you ruin our lunch,” Clint promises darkly, “I’ll have you cook something new for us.”

Unimpressed by the threat – and truly, Bruce does not have to fear anything from them with his loyal guard dog always waiting inside his skin – Bruce raises his eyebrows.

“What is it with you always bringing food to the workshop now?” he questions.

Clint guesses it is not so hard to guess anymore where he is going this time of day, considering how many lunches he shares with Tony.

“Someone has to make sure that Tony eats,” he answers with a shrug. It is more than that, of course. Mostly, they are having fun. Also, he currently runs an experiment to see whether he can get Tony to involuntarily interrupt his work. Up until now, no matter how much Clint chatters or how involved Tony gets in their conversation, he has managed to multitask perfectly.

“He’s welcome to come up to the kitchen like everyone else,” Bruce says. He sounds more curious than miffed but Clint still feels compelled to defend himself.

“Because you don’t know what it’s like to forget the time when you’re working?” Clint asks, a mocking quality to his tone.

“I don’t see you carrying plates after me,” Bruce replies evenly, his face relaxed.

Clint is glad that Bruce does not seem to mean this as an actual rebuff, because while he likes Bruce, spending time with Tony is so much more fun. Bruce tends to ignore people when he is busy and does not react too kindly to being poked.

“Well, you’re used to listening to your body,” Clint says, then amends with a smile, “if mostly to avoid smashing everything around. Tony is practiced at ignoring his.”

They all know that – and should have even before Tony collapsed in front of them due to his wounds after the lab mission. Ignoring pain is one thing, but pushing himself beyond his limits without any regard for his health is quite another. Tony’s relationship with food is not quite that bad, but he does tend to forget his body needs nourishment every now and then.

“You think that’ll get better if you handfeed him?” Bruce asks, pointing at one of Clint’s plates, where the food is already cut in small pieces, making it easier to pop it into one’s mouth one-handed and without looking. Clint learned the hard way that Tony does not have patience for anything needing more than a blind grab, no matter how delicious.

“What are you arguing against here, doc?” Clint shoots back, allowing some irritation into his tone. He does not have anything against some good-natured teasing, but if Tony were to hear this, he might get the wrong idea and shut them out again. “A lot of the work Tony is doing benefits us directly, and the rest makes sure that he keeps his billions with which he makes it possible to house us, pay whatever damages we cause when we’re out there saving the day, and generally give us a good life.” He takes a step forward, although his posture does not get particularly threatening. “He’s an asshole, all right, but he’s our asshole. And it’s time for all of us to accept that.”

To give him some credit, Bruce looks stricken. It is all too easy to misstep with so many different character housed under one roof. “I wasn’t trying to say you shouldn’t –”

“We all have a lot of excuses ready when it comes to Tony,” Clint talks all over him. Bruce might not have meant anything by it, but he did start the discussion. “We’re all too willing to blame him for, well, being himself.”

Bruce’s arms twitch as if he thinks about crossing them in front of him. “He can be rather rude,” he then points out. It is hard to say whether he actually wants to argue. “You regularly curse his existence after he’s snapped at you.”

Clint does. It is no secret. If he feels like it, he does it right in Tony’s face. For a spy, Clint does not like secrecy very much. Clear communication is a much better tool to solve all sorts of problems – and the Avengers have too much of the latter to scoff at the former.

“Let me tell you, doc, you’re not a pleasure to talk with after a working binge in the lab either,” Clint says, keeping his voice even for he does not want to start a fight. “I have a not entirely positive reputation at SHIELD. Nat is vicious. Thor is holding onto his own customs as much as his hammer. Steve doesn’t know how to deal with people having different opinions than him without turning it into an argument.” Clint shrugs. There is no hiding from the fact that they are a mess. “We are all social disasters, especially thrown in with each other.”

He could say a lot more, could list a hundred more reasons why they should all be kinder to each other, even if one wants to ignore common courtesy. Instead, he leans back and waits for Bruce to speak his verdict. Opinions cannot be dictated, no matter how often people try.

“I guess you’re right,” Bruce says slowly, an apology written all over his face.

“No buts,” Clint says quickly when Bruce opens his mouth to keep talking. “We’re a team. Let’s act like one.”

It feels like a hoax to preach about teamwork and holding together, considering that Clint had categorically refused to work with anyone but Natasha or Phil when he was still with SHIELD. Trust is not something that comes easy to him. Blow by blow, life has trained that out of him.

“Steve has been going on about that too,” Bruce finally says, sounding pensive. “He came to me last night, asking about my work on the serum and the Hulk.”

“Yeah, he’s been going around,” Clint sighs, wondering where that sudden interest comes from and when Steve will show up on his doorstep. He is also not sure whether he is going to say anything. His story is not something he likes to think of often. “Nat put him down on his ass about a second after he opened his mouth. JARVIS showed me the footage, it was hilarious.”

That said, Clint does not think it is that bad an idea to get to know each other. It is just – Steve is going right for the painful parts, or at least the ones he knows about. After months of coexisting, he has decided to pass over companionship and right into best friend business.

“Why?” Bruce asks, echoing Clint’s thoughts.

Since Clint does not have a satisfying answer, he deflects with a grin. “Nat doesn’t answer questions she’s not ready for. You don’t push her. You wait for her to come to you.”

Inclining his head as if that is obvious, Bruce elaborates. “No, I meant, why is Steve doing rounds?”

Because he is the kind of person, who believes that talking makes everything better. Because something or someone must have opened his eyes to the fact that they are just strangers thrown together by Fury and that, once the world was not in immediate danger anymore, they have no idea how to deal with each other.

Out loud, Clint says, “He must have realized too that we can and _should_ do better.”

“By getting to know each other?” Bruce’s expression is a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

“It’s a start, yes?” Clint finds that, when someone else doubts Steve’s approach this blatantly, he suddenly thinks it might not be such a bad idea. “Now, let me pass so I can reheat our lunch.”

As Clint turns away, he thinks he sees something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks again, there is no one but Bruce in the kitchen and an empty hallway behind him. Shrugging, he faces the microwave. Tony would likely never notice whether the food is actually hot, but Clint has principles. It seems like they all should have some more of those where it comes to living together.

 

* * *

 

For once, Tony is not busy working to the point where he does not even notice Clint enter when Clint arrives at the workshop some minutes later. Instead, Tony sits facing the door, a thoughtful expression on his face. The screen next to him blinks out some message, but he does not even look at it.

This is such a strange welcome that Clint pauses in the door, wondering whether today is some special date he has forgotten about. For a moment, they stare at each other, then Tony waves him in. The gesture looks slightly impatient but Tony’s expression brightens with a smile.

“What?” Clint asks, taking careful steps into the room. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Unfortunately, I think that _is_ your face,” Tony counters immediately, grin growing a bit sharper. “Can’t I just be happy to see you?”

“You never are.” Clint is immediately alert, certain that he is going to be pranked. It is just unnatural for Tony to be in such a good mood. Not that Clint would complain if he did not feel like he was in immediate danger. People smiling is a good thing, just not in such an unprecedented way.

If anything, Tony looks rather satisfied with himself. Then he takes pity on Clint, though, and walks over to him, taking the plates to bring them to one of the workbenches that is mysteriously already cleared. They do not usually use a whole table for lunch, especially not Tony.

“Please,” Tony says in a low voice, “you’re my new favourite, birdbrain. I wouldn’t do anything to you.”

Clint follows slowly after Tony, thinking about his words. “Who was it before?” he asks. Perhaps he has missed another argument within the team, one that has boosted Clint’s popularity with Tony another notch.

Tony hesitates for a moment, arranging their cutlery carefully like either of them cares about that. “Bruce.”

He sounds guilty, and that is when Clint realizes that the shadow he saw earlier was not just his imagination but actually Tony listening in on his conversation with Bruce.

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop on people, right?” Clint asks. Considering what his job was before he became an Avengers, Clint means it mostly rhetorically. He cannot count the times he listened in on people inside SHIELD buildings alone, much less out of them.

“You were talking in front of the coffee machine,” Tony scoffs, delivering his excuse without the slightest hint of remorse. “If you say my name to it three times, I’m magically forced to appear.”

That startles a laugh out of Clint, and he finally sits down in one of the two chairs provided. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if that were true,” he says and thinks about all the fun he could have with that. Face turning serious, he adds, “It’s still rude, but I hope you know it was all true.”

Tony lets himself fall into the other chair and pulls one of the plates close, playing with his fork as he takes his time to answer. When he looks up, he meets Clint’s eyes directly. “I think,” he says slowly, weighing each word, “I might begin to believe that.”

Although Clint is half-tempted to spell it all out for Tony again – that he considers them not just teammates but actual friends, speeding into being best friends, that Tony is valued, that, without him, they would not be the Avengers and not just because their equipment would be crap – but then he just nods with too much cheer.

“Great. In return, you’ll come up to dinner tonight,” he all but orders. “Half seven sharp.”

Tony, who has already been in the process of nodding, narrows his eyes. “That’s awfully early.”

Grinning entirely unapologetic, Clint says, “I heard a rumour that you’re not just half Italian but also know your way around a kitchen. It’s your turn to cook.”

Blinking in surprise, Tony asks, “Who decided that? More importantly, who told you that?” He does not exactly look displeased but Clint recognizes the wariness in his eyes nonetheless. It stems from the fact that someone has found out a secret about Tony, which he did not share, and which was definitely not made public by some newspaper.

Since Clint is not one to betray his sources, he grins. “Doesn’t matter.” Also, it is not his fault that a drunk Rhodey is very talkative and Clint was just in the right place to listen. “But since I’m the kind of nice guy who wouldn’t let you stumble around in a kitchen I’m sure you never used for more than making coffee, I’ll be your assistant.”

Which will surely end in disaster because Clint’s cooking expertise amounts to nothing more than sandwiches and reheating leftovers.

“Do you want to poison the Avengers and blame it on me?” Tony asks dubiously, surely wondering not for the first time whether Clint has lost his mind.

“Half seven sharp, Tony” Clint replies cheerfully. “Bring your best recipes. We’re going wild tonight.”

After staring at him for another long moment, Tony sighs in defeat and finally lifts his fork with purpose. He does not look up again until his plate is empty, eating with the kind of focus that makes it seem like Tony does not know when he will next get something. Perhaps the rumours of Tony’s cooking prowess have been exaggerated. Perhaps Clint should go to the kitchen for seconds. Perhaps he should stop blurting out his spontaneous ideas the minute they come to his mind and think about them first.

Well, one of the definite advantages of living with a billionaire in New York is the constant availability of fast food in case dinner is ruined. There are definitely worse lives to be had. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Tony,” Clint calls just as Tony is about to leave the kitchen with his afternoon coffee in hand. “We were thinking about having a movie night.”

Tony startles, remembering that Bruce tried to bug him into coming several times in the beginning. He has also seen the aftermath; pizza cartons strewn across the living room floor, popcorn decorating the couch, and exhausted Avengers stumbling around the next day.

He always thought the idea is a nice one, he has regular movie marathons with Rhodey too, after all, but the one time he tried going, he found the atmosphere stifling. No one dared make a comment as if actually watching the movie is the main goal of sitting down together in front of the TV. Since he has too much to do anyway, Tony refrained from going again until the rest of the team stopped asking.

“That’s nice,” Tony says slowly, wondering when they decided to inform him what is going in his house. “Don’t get any more pizza stains on my couch.”

Clint already has his mouth open, likely to protest his involvement in any staining around the tower, when Bruce talks over him.

“That was meant as an invitation,” Bruce says, a slight rebuff in his tone. “How does seven sound?”

If not for Steve’s presence, and the same mild curiosity on his face as on the others’, Tony might think they are pranking him.

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t tonight.” Tony makes a show of frowning in an approximant of disappointment. “But I’m sure you’ll have fun without me.”

With that, he turns to the door, ready to escape. He is not even sure why. With as good as things have been lately, the offer might just be genuine, and doing anything with Clint usually results in fun.

“We won’t,” Clint replies shortly, stopping Tony in his track. What is he to think about that? “When are you free this week?”

Looking over his shoulders, Tony says, “I’m not.” It is not a healthy decision, but he wants to know if they will keep pushing if he refuses. It would not do to be invited out of pity, or because they are playing nice with each other lately and therefore have to include him.

Tony does not think it is that. Ever since his conversation with Steve, the two of them have come to a sort of understanding where they think before they speak and are generally much easier to be around. Miracles do still happen, although Tony would have never thought it would come in the form of Captain America and him having a heart to heart.

“What about next week?” Natasha chimes in with the kind of cheer that is also a warning.

Tony regards her for a moment. “Just send me a message and I’ll see whether I can make it.”

Nobody is happy with that, Tony can recognize that easily. Even Steve has his lips pursed in displeasure.

“You see, that’s not how this is going to work anymore,” Clint disagrees, sitting up straighter in his seat as he glares at Tony. “I’m not sure why you never have time when we meet up, but we won’t accept an excuse until you’ve tried at least once more. So, if you can’t tonight, we’ll reschedule for Friday.”

Next to him, Natasha wears a small grin, making her look like a shark. “I’ll call Pepper to make sure she knows you’re taking the night off.”

Arguing would be easy. Pepper is not the only one constantly showering Tony with work. There is Fury, R&D, the Avengers themselves, Tony’s own projects. If not for stupid things like bodily needs, Tony could work for the rest of his life without ever taking a break and still have tasks left.

Leaning against the door, Tony asks, “Why?”

In response, Clint rolls his eyes. “It’s a _team_ night,” he says, drawing out the words, “so of course, you have to be there for it.”

Natasha’s face becomes vaguely more threatening, while the rest of the team nods with varying intensity. Thor is especially enthusiastic. Since it is well past lunch time, Tony is not even sure why they are all gathered in the kitchen. It altogether feels too much like an ambush.

“I – all right,” he concedes, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach. He is Tony Stark, he does not get excited because his team pushes him into attending movie night. There it is, _his team_. A smile steals itself on his lips, which he quickly turns into a smirk. “But I’m not going to watch any of Bruce’s romances.”

No one had been surprised to find out that Bruce is the romantic type. That he has the Hulk lurking in his brain does not change any of that. Although there is something disturbing about listening to the Hulk off-key humming the Titanic soundtrack in the midst of battle.

“It’s Clint’s turn,” Bruce says mildly, not offended. “But since even Steve has seen Brave at least three times by now, you can choose.”

“Hey,” Clint protests to no one’s surprise, “I like that movie.”

Under no circumstances is Tony going to admit that he does, too. Someone defying their parents’ wishes and working on becoming their own person is simply an appealing concept.

“I promise I won’t choose anything arrow-themed,” he drawls and winks at Clint.

It cannot be something with pseudo-science either, since he is sure no one will invite him again if he spends the whole movie yelling at the screen at things that _just don’t work that way_. That is something he reserves for Rhodey, who at least appreciates his rants and joins in too most of the time. 

“Great,” Natasha says, making it clear through her expression alone that she will not accept any drawbacks. “We’ll see you on Friday.”

Making a split-second decision, Tony shakes his head. There is no use drawing this out unnecessarily now. “Actually, tonight is fine.”

Clint’s face splits with a smug grin that basically shouts _I told you so_ , and the rest nods knowingly.

“I will prepare the snacks,” Thor promises and walks off towards the kitchen, even though there are still some hours left until seven. Nobody else seems surprised by his eagerness, though, so Tony supposes Thor is either slow or takes the task very seriously. Half of them have enhanced metabolisms, after all.

Still bewildered, if not displeased, Tony leaves for his workshop. As soon as he is out of earshot, he says, “J, tell me when it’s time to go up.”

“With pleasure, sir.” At some point, he is going to code the amusement out of JARVIS that he always shows when someone pushes Tony into something he does not actually want. Not today, though. Perhaps after what promises to be a ruinous evening with the rest of the Avengers.

 

* * *

 

“Colonel Rhodes has arrived, sir,” JARVIS announces into the sleepy silence of the living room, startling Tony awake from where he has been dozing in an armchair.

At once, he is fully awake, eyes bright and smile wide. He jumps to his feet and hurries forward, despite being slightly unsteady on his feet. The tablet that he has meant to work on falls to the ground, but he does not pay it any mind.

“Honey bear,” he calls loudly as soon as Rhodey’s shape appears in the door. He ignores the sleeping figures around him as he leaps forward, trusting Rhodey to open his arms in time. He always does.

“Tones,” Rhodey greets, his voice warming Tony from the inside out. It is such a familiar thing, always sounding like home.

When they part, Rhodey looks around with raised eyebrows, causing Tony to take in the scene himself. He must admit that it is artfully done, like a giant child throwing a tantrum inside the Avengers’ living room, using them and the furniture as toys.

The couch is half-turned into a pillow fort. Originally, it only had an open wall facing the TV screen. Sometime during the night, it mostly collapsed, though, turning the couch into a battlefield of blankets and pillows with Thor sprawling on top, snoring loud enough to make the walls vibrate. Curled up at his feet is Clint, hugging a pizza carton of all things. Only Natasha looks somewhat dignified, lying in an armchair nearby. The floor is littered with empty cartons and popcorn. An arrow sticks out of the wall next to the TV.

“Come in,” Tony, voice full of cheer as if there is nothing unusual about their surroundings. “Don’t let the chaos scare you off. Being heroes obviously doesn’t keep people from being messy.”

Rhodey opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask a dozen questions – it is not every day one sees Earth’s saviours like this, after all – but then he shrugs, taking it all in stride.

“You do remember me picking up after you for literal years at MIT, yes?”

To be fair, their dorm room had always had a sort of controlled chaos to it, painted by frantic all-nighters and various machine parts lying around haphazardly. For all the partying Tony had done during his college years, he had taken care to keep them away from their home. Cleaning up would have been too much of a hassle, and every time he tried, he got pulled back into an old, abandoned project he found on the ground or stashed away in the cupboard.

“You could have done the smart thing and built a robot for that,” Tony says dismissively, ignoring the fact that DUM-E, once he had been built, had only added to the mess.

“One person building homicidal machines per dorm is more than enough.” Rhodey has that vaguely reproachful expression but cannot hide the smile tugging at his lips. Those were good days, before life had become so complicated.

Following their age-old argument, Tony jumps to his bot’s defence. “It’s not homicide if you just refuse to learn not to drink anything DUM-E makes.” Not that Tony is any better about that, but he at least does it often enough to have built up an immunity. “Anyway,” he says, looking around the room again with a happy smile, “let’s go to the penthouse before the rest of the maniacs wake up.”

“Too late,” Clint groans loudly before they have managed to take a single step. “Did no one ever teach you to keep your voice down?”

He looks hilarious, his hair is standing up in complete disorder, a dark is pattern pressed into his cheek from sleeping on a wrinkled blanket. His expression is likely supposed to be murderous. Since he blinks his narrowed eyes against the brightness of the room, he looks more like a mole digging its way up to the surface.

Tony laughs. “Then how would you hear me?” He has not felt this effortlessly cheerful in ages.

Suddenly, a fork comes flying from the direction of the armchair Natasha is occupying, missing Tony’s head by so little that is has to have been deliberate.

“Good morning to you too, Nat,” Tony greets, utterly unfazed by the near attack. There are some things one gets used to when living with assassins. In response, she just glares.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Rhodey remarks dryly.

“We had a movie night, which quickly turned into a movie morning,” Tony explains. Thanks to very effective blinds, he is not quite sure how long the sun has actually been up already when the first of the group began falling asleep. “Bruce and I have been up for hours.”

That is not a lie. Tony has gotten up but did not get farther than the coffee machine before he turned around and got comfortable in one of the armchairs. Bruce walked off to have a shower and never emerged from that. Tony would bet he fell asleep under the hot water, it would not be the first time either.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Rhodey asks.

The thing is, Tony is not sure. He does not like sleeping when he is not alone but, lately, the team has stopped being registered as a threat in his mind. Also, he has watched all the movies before, so he cannot be sure whether he fell asleep during one and just woke up during another.

“Steve insisted on going to his room at about four,” Tony keeps talking. “The rest of us doesn’t have any shame, though.”

Rhodey’s face is open, lit up by a smile as he looks at Tony, giving him the inexplicable feeling that he has done something right, something Rhodey is proud of him for. Before he has the chance to say anything, Clint’s glare intensifies.

“Get out, Stark,” he bellows and points at the door with the righteous fury of the untimely awakened.

“But my –” Tony does not get any farther because that is when Natasha joins in, and everybody knows better than to cross her.

“Do it,” she growls, “before I start throwing knives and stop missing.” Even looking half-asleep and knowing that she did not get much rest, Tony knows she will do as promised if they do not move.

“That’s our cue,” he says, taking Rhodey by the arm. “I just had to renovate the living room after last game night. Things tend to get heated around here.”

Thor has not moved the entire time and keeps snoring while Rhodey and Tony hurriedly leave. Out in the hallway they slow down a bit, although they do not resume talking. It is rare enough that Rhodey comes to visit, so Tony is simply glad to enjoy his presence for the moment.

The elevator opens for them automatically and they ride up to the penthouse in silence. Once there, Rhodey turns towards the kitchen, asking “Breakfast?” over his shoulder.

In response, Tony sighs happily and nods. It has been too long. He follows after Rhodey and slip into one of the stools at the bar, happy to watch.

“Are you all right?” Rhodey asks when he puts a cup of coffee in front of Tony.

“I’m not looking that bad,” Tony protests immediately. He knows when he should worry about himself. Lately, he has been doing so well, it is almost frightening. He cannot remember a time when he had a more regular schedule than now. Clint is a miracle worker for getting him to eat at least two actual meals per day.

“On the contrary,” Rhodey corrects himself, “This is the first time in months I’ve seen you without bags under your eyes.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement, indeed.” Out of its own volition, one of Tony’s hands rises to touch the sensitive skin beneath his eyes. “But, truly, I’m all right. It feels like everything is falling into place. Slowly, but we’re getting there.”

With anyone else, Tony would have never admitted that. Most people have no business knowing that the Avengers are not as unbreakable a team as they project for the public. Even the ones close enough to catch glimpses of the truth, cannot be allowed to see all of it. Pepper, for example, knows that Tony is a mess. If she ever found out how out of place Tony felt in his own home since inviting the Avengers in, she would have opted for dealing with the problem herself. That might have been effective, but would have hardly made them a stronger team. Pepper tends to  leave nothing standing in her wake when she fights for a friend.

“So you’re not arguing so much with Rogers anymore?” Rhodey asks as he turns towards the fridge to see what he can whip up for them to eat.

The worst thing about having a best friend is him knowing all about Tony’s weak points. In a way, that is also the best thing.

“Let’s say it’s less like a war now.” To his own surprise, there is no doubt in Tony’s voice. Not everything is well, but he has begun to enjoy some of the time he spends with Steve.

Rhodey hums and gets a carton of eggs out of the fridge as well as onion and tomatoes, which he puts down in front of Tony together with a plate and knife. Clearly, Tony is expected to work for his meal. Without complaint he reaches for the onion first and starts cutting it with practiced movements.

“You don’t regret taking them in?” Rhodey accentuates his words with breaking the eggs open into a bowl.

“I never did.” The normalcy of it all has Tony feeling safe and entirely too willing to be honest. “But it’s turning more into something that feels right instead of just a chore.”

They both know Tony is not a quitter. As long as the Avengers accepted his presence, he would have stayed, no matter his personal opinions. That is something Rhodey and Pepper have been working to change unsuccessfully for years.

“I’m glad,” Rhodey says simply, although there is nothing simple to the weight behind the words.

“You would be, you sap,” Tony answers with a smile. He pushes the cut onions towards Rhodey to put into a pan. “You know,” he then says, allowing himself to dream, “you have a place here whenever you want it. You’d fit in easily, and Steve would be happy to have someone on board who knows a bit about discipline.”

Rhodey is never going to accept that, not as long as he is part of the military. No matter what outrageous offers Tony has made over the years, beginning the very day they graduated from MIT, Rhodey did not let anything sway him from his chosen path. That is something to admire, surely, but it will always be a source of some displeasure for Tony.

“I’m happy where I am,” Rhodey answers kindly, then smiles good-naturedly. “And since you don’t look like you’re in immediate need of rescue anymore –”

“I know,” Tony cuts him off, staring at the tomatoes in front of him. He cannot help himself. It would just be nice to have his friends nearby.

“Do you?” Rhodey asks, breaking the last egg with more force than necessary. “Sometimes I’m not so sure. Pepper was worried.”

Pepper is always worried, though, and Tony knows he makes that easy. “That’s, like, part of her job,” he offers cheekily, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer topics. All this talk about emotions will only leave him constipated.

“And it’s nice to see you decided to stop making it so difficult for her.”

The truth is, Tony has not had much say in the matter. One little overestimation of his ability to stay conscious when wounded started this whole thing. He does not exactly regret it, because he is finally feeling somewhat at home, but he does not completely understand it either.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony says magnanimously, not bothering to hide his grin. “I’m a dream to work with.”

“Of course you are,” Rhodey says, reaching out to pat Tony’s hand patronizingly. “Now, let’s get the food ready so we can go to the workshop. I want to hear all about the new upgrades you have for War Machine. I’ve had some ideas of my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.   
> This one is for [Cielo_Notturno__Liriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cielo_Notturno__Liriel/pseuds/Cielo_Notturno__Liriel), who wanted Steve attempting to talk to Clint. Thank you for that!

Clint sees Steve coming. Well, JARVIS tells him that Steve is coming, but in this house, that is nearly the same. It is just a precaution. He does not feel unsafe in the tower, but he has learned early on to make sure he knows who is coming for him at a time when he can still run. Clint does not run from Steve.

He waits for the knock on his door, then takes his time to get up from his bed, as if he has not known about his visitor. Appearances are everything.

As soon as he opens the door and sees Steve’s face, Clint curses inwardly and thinks running might have been the better option. The familiar determination radiating off their leader is bad enough, but paired with that mixed expression of reluctance and understanding, it can only mean one thing.

Clint is not ready to talk to Steve about why he is who he is. Even though he has arguably had time to come to terms with the thought of Steve eventually coming to him, too, Clint’s readiness to actually answer has decreased with every passing day. They do not need this to become a team, just a willingness to be kinder with each other. Tony and he manage quite well without having played twenty questions.

“Nope,” Clint says before Steve has even opened his mouth. “We’re not doing this.”

If not for the irritation boiling in his stomach, Clint might have laughed at Steve’s expression when Clint shuts the door right in his face. He briefly thinks about disappearing through the vents, but there is no outrunning Captain America on a mission. So he does not move from his place, separated from Steve only by the thin wood, and waits for the arguments to hit him.

“Clint.” Steve sighs. It is the kind of long-suffering tone that has Clint even less willing to cooperate. “Open the door.”

So many people have used that tone on him, mistaking his cheerful attitude as childishness that can be brought to heel by claiming authority over him. Clint does not mind following people, but only if he is not seen as a mindless underling. That is the reason no one at SHIELD knows how to deal with him now that Phil is gone. Nobody expects the uptight, rule-following Agent Coulson to have taken his unruly agents’ opinions into account.

“You sound like my father.” Clint realizes too late that this, in itself, tells more than he wants anyone to know – at least to someone who knows how to listen. He is not yet sure whether Steve belongs in that category.

“I just want to talk,” Steve adds, slightly impatient and completely oblivious to the subtext in Clint’s answer.

Worse, now he sounds like a dozen people from the circus, faces blurring into a grey mass still haunting him in his nightmares sometimes. They all just wanted to talk, only words usually turned into blows or touches. It is likely coincidence, since Clint is already on edge, but everything Steve does hits a sore point with him.

“I thought getting knocked down by Nat might have taught you that this is not the cleverest approach,” Clint says and puts a hand on the wall where he can see it, so he will not do something stupid as hit it in mounting frustration.

“Could you please open the door?” Steve asks with a great deal less conviction.

That is what has Clint’s anger wavering. Perhaps he is being a tad childish.

Instinctively, Clint’s eyes wander to where his bow leans against the wall by his bed. The thought that he would need it is ridiculous – and not just because he would be entering a close-ranged fight. This is Steve, who tries to do right by them but does not know how. Steve, who is righteous and unforgiving where it comes to their enemies but loyal to his friends. He just does not know how to take a refusal.

With a scowl, Clint rips the door open but positions himself so that it is clear he is not inviting Steve in. That is still a rather new feeling too, to have his own place, where he can decide who enters.

“Thank-” Steve begins, but Clint is not in the mood to listen.

“You want to hear my story?” Clint asks sharply, baring his teeth. “All right, my mum’s dead, my father’s a drunk, my brother’s a criminal.” He laughs without humour. “The circus isn’t half as much fun as it sounds when you have to stay there, and SHIELD’s pension plan isn’t all that great either, despite them expecting that few agents ever reach retirement at all. Happy?”

The thing is, Clint’s life can actually boiled down to these few facts. A lot of gritty details could fill in the picture, but superficially he has slipped from one shitty situation where he was dependant on others into the next. Even SHIELD has only been bearable because of Phil and later Nat. The Avengers are something new, something exciting and liberating and sometimes frighteningly real. He does not want to drag his old life into this attempt at a new one.

“Clint –” Steve tries again. Something fragile enters his expression that Clint does not want to see, does not want directed at himself.

“What?” Clint snaps. Sometimes he wishes he was more like Natasha. No one would dare to keep asking her about things she does not want to tell. Her life, of course, was even worse than his, so maybe he is all right with being who he is. “Do you think saying my name in your disappointed voice will make me spill my guts? Spoiler alert: you use it too often for that. It’s losing its effectiveness.”

Steve’s lips press into a thin line. If they are both running out of patience, they might just end this quickly.

“I didn’t mean to –”

“Yes, you do,” Clint cuts Steve off again. He takes half a step forward, glaring at Steve from up close. “Some of the others might indulge you, but trust isn’t something you get just because you think you’re owed it.”

Clint supposes that Steve does not think of it that way and just goes wrong about earning it, but he has neither the energy nor the patience to get to the bottom of the matter. He just wants to be left alone until he is ready to step forward and offer a piece of himself.

He is already turning away, when he thinks better of it and adds in a biting tone, “And don’t go after Nat again. Seeing her put you to the floor once was funny, next time I might just help her make you stay there.”

With that, Clint throws the door shut again and resolutely turns around. He thinks about taking out his hearing aids to make sure he will not hear any possible attempts of Steve talking to him again. If he does, though, it might be more satisfying to ignore him _despite_ hearing him clearly.

Clint cannot quite explain why he is so angry all of a sudden. He knew Steve was going around asking questions. It was only a matter of time before he came knocking at Clint’s door too. He has had time to prepare for this, to find a more polite way to refuse to answer. Yet something about Steve expecting to come by whenever he feels like it and ask whatever he wants, having the audacity to look hurt when Clint said no, sits wrong with him.

Secrecy is one of the first things he ever learned. He knew not to tell anyone that his father was a drunk, as likely to sit weeping on the couch as to reach for his belt to teach his ungrateful sons a lesson. He knew not to talk about his mother, despite wanting so desperately to remember her. He knew how to navigate nosy neighbours and overeager teachers. All of that happened long before he ever had to lie to keep his brother safe from the police, and much longer still before he became a spy.

Clint grew up knowing that some questions are better off unanswered. Steve apparently never learned that lesson. At some point, everybody figures that out.

 

* * *

 

“This looks like a conspiracy,” Tony says as he enters the living room.

The blinds are mostly down, casting the room into a dim darkness despite it being early afternoon. The rest of the Avengers sit around the couch table, various foods between them and all of them wearing more or less sour expressions.

Actually, it is not all of them. Steve is not here, his favourite arm chair is empty. Over the table, however, hovers a holoscreen, showing footage of Steve going at a punching bag in the gym.

When JARVIS announced that the Avengers needed Tony for some urgent business, he thought it would be something more life-and-death than watching their leader work out. Also, his teammates’ faces do not quite match the occasion of seeing Steve shirtless.

“What’s going on?” Tony asks as he lets himself fall into a free armchair. He foregoes his usual seat on the couch next to Clint, because he might need to escape quickly and that will be indefinitely easier if he is not within grabbing distance of the archer. Shooting bows has made Clint’s grip near unbreakable.

“Steve,” Clint says darkly and motions at the screen.

It does not look like Steve is overly upset or otherwise in need of physical excersice to calm himself down. In fact, his movements are rather leisurely, following a routine rather than a clear purpose.

“From the look of it, this is pretty much normal,” Tony says but gives the other Avengers the benefit of the doubt. “J, how many bags has he destroyed today?”

As ridiculous as it sounds, the number of broken punching bags correlates directly with Steve’s mood. The more destruction, the worse Steve is dealing with whatever is going on.

“None,” JARVIS answers promptly, sounding vaguely amused. “Captain Rogers appears to do a routine workout.”

“Ah, yes,” Tony mock-sighs, “the good Captain only destroys stuff when he’s emotional.”

Satisfied that his assessment was proven right, Tony looks around the table, even more confused as to what they are doing here. Nobody laughs at his admittedly weak joke. They have all been at the other end of one of Steve’s rampages. Compared to the punching bags, they at least survived.

“We were talking about his insistence to find out all our life stories,” Bruce explains shortly. His gaze, too, lingers on Steve’s glorious muscles, no matter that the camera feed does not do them justice.

It has been some time since Steve came to Tony to ask about Afghanistan. He also heard about the incidence with Natasha and thought the matter dealt with after that. Apparently, Steve has less of a self-preservation instinct than even Tony himself.

“I’m afraid I might be to blame for that,” Thor says, clearing his throat before Tony can question why Steve’s crusade has become a problem just now. “Although I simply meant for him to communicate more with us, not to pry.”

Tony is not sure whether to ask for clarification how exactly Steve managed to misunderstand _talk to them_ as _talk to them about their trauma_. It is, admittedly, a very Steve thing to do.

“Just tell him no,” Tony finally says, when it becomes clear they are waiting for a reaction from him. “He listens to you.”

Curiously enough, Tony manages to say that last bit without a hint of bitterness. That is perhaps due to how much better he is getting along with Steve these days or because everyone else seems to listen to him more often now.

“But he gets that kicked puppy look if we do,” Clint argues immediately as if he has just waited for his cue, “as if we, personally, are responsible for every last rejection he ever got.”

“I cannot imagine he got many,” Thor throws in pensively, nodding at the screen, “looking like he does.”

Chuckling, Natasha leans towards him. “Remind me to show you some pictures of him before the serum and you’ll change your mind.” With a complicated gesture vaguely resembling her erasing Steve’s impressive shoulder-to-waist ratio, she adds, “Imagine all that spite without something nice to look at.”

Tony ignores their banter – although he does agree with Natasha – and keeps looking at Clint instead. “You’re afraid of Captain America’s pout.”

Truth be told, there is something terrifyingly powerful about it, like disappointing the personification of their home country, their all-American wonder boy.

Clint opens his mouth to counter something, but Bruce decides once more to be the voice of reason.

“We’re getting off-topic here,” he says, causing everyone to sit a little straighter again and look back at the screen.

“So this is an intervention,” Tony exclaims, looking forward to when they are actually sitting Steve down. Now that the tower is turning into a home for all of them, life has become downright entertaining. “What’s your plan?”

Silence follows his question, which makes him think he might have judged the entertainment value of this venture to soon. The atmosphere becomes slightly threatening even.

“We thought you could talk to him,” Clint then offers, his words ringing loudly between them.

Spontaneous laughter erupts from Tony’s lips. Before it can settle in his stomach, he notices that no one else is even cracking a smile.

“That was funny,” he says, emphasizing the words to give them more weight, although there is no mistaking the growing desperation in his voice when still no one caves and laughs with him. “You – you’re not serious, right? You want me to – _me?_ Tony ‘why can’t you ever do anything right’ Stark? – to talk sense into Captain America?”

“If he ever says that again,” Clint speaks up solemnly, “I’ll punch him for you.” He says nothing else, no explanation, no apology for the bad joke either.

“That’s nice of you to offer but not my point,” Tony says distractedly, busy staring at every face around the table. There is some discomfort meeting him, but nobody actually looks away.

“If Steve ever manages to get his head out of his ass, he’ll like you best,” Natasha explains nonchalantly as if any of that makes this idea suddenly all right. It still contains a few too many _if_ s and _would_ s.

“I don’t make a habit of disagreeing with ladies who could kill me with their little finger,” Tony says, unable to keep the sharpness out of his tone, “but that’s utter nonsense. Steve barely tolerates me.”

They have come rather far already, considering where they started on that helicarrier, beginning to fight the moment they first set eyes on each other. Back then, Tony would have never imagined that he would ever share several meals a day with Steve without the tower falling apart around them.

“Our fine Captain values your contribution to the team very much,” Thor says, his face solemn. He looks altogether too much as if he has read his argument from a pre-prepared card. “He also admires you personally.”

While Tony tries to swallow another bout of disbelieving laughter, all eyes turn to Bruce, obviously waiting for him to make his point too.

“You’re practically our co-leaders.” Bruce shrugs half-apologetically, but does not back down when Tony glares at him.

_Co-leaders_ , what a farce. Tony just pays for everything and makes sure their equipment is the best they can get. He also sometimes takes Steve’s plans and makes them more accessible or adapts them to a changed situation. That is called taking the initiative, not leading.

“I see what this is now,” Tony says slowly, eyes narrowed. “It’s not an intervention to get Steve to stop but one to get me to do the dirty work for you.”

It is such a ridiculous idea that Tony is not sure how four people with above-average intelligence managed to cook it up and not find anything wrong with it.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Thor says somewhat sheepishly. He, at least has the decency to show some guilt. His comment has Tony zeroing in on him, though, which has him ducking his head – a hilarious gesture for a god of legend.

“Why not you, Thor?” Tony asks, an edge to his tone. “Since you’re the one who gave Steve the idea?”

To his surprise, Thor seems to actually consider it, although he refuses without much regret. “I fear that taking back my advice might do additional damage in other areas we talked about.”

Tony is tempted to ask and sees interest twitching in Natasha’s face too, but they have a more pressing matter to deal with.

“You’re the best for the job, Tony,” Clint speaks up. While his face is completely serious, Tony knows him well enough by now to see Clint’s lips strain against the urge to smirk.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tony mutters, wishing he had never left his workshop. Next time they want him to come to some secret meeting, he will not come out of lockdown for a few days at least.

Now, though, they must have heard something in his tone that Tony is not yet ready to admit to himself, because smiles spread on the faces around him.

“You agree, then?” Thor asks brightly, and Tony does not have it in him to disappoint him.

“Damn you,” he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He already feels a headache coming. “You’re going to make me break my two-weak streak of not getting yelled at.”

A collective sigh goes through the room, which Tony finds a bit over the top, considering they are still talking about Captain America. Steve might be good at holding a grudge, but he also values most members of their team.

“If he yells at you for this, he has learned nothing,” Bruce says as if this is in any way making this better.

“Because our Captain is known for letting common sense stop him.” Tony is only arguing for show anymore. People do not usually ask him to resolve anything by talking. He is more the type who causes some explosions to solve his problems.

Getting to her feet, Natasha says dryly, “You’ll manage.” Now that he has agreed, they are naturally already cheeky again. They could have grovelled a bit longer, at least until he has talked to Steve.

“I demand blueberry pancakes in return,” Tony says, revelling in the novelty of being able to demand anything from these people, even if it is meant half in jest.

“That’s my specialty,” Clint exclaims, “I’ll get right to it.”

Since pancakes are about the only thing that Clint manages to do without turning the whole kitchen into a smouldering ruin, Tony just nods graciously.

He watches their meeting break up as Clint follows Natasha outside, and Thor pulls one of the snack bowls towards himself to take to his room. Glancing at the screen, Tony sees that they finished right in time with Steve stopping his workout and heading for the showers, oblivious to the conspiracy brewing in his home.

Well, Steve will know soon enough. Whether he will listen is another matter altogether.

 

* * *

 

The best approach, Tony figures, is to make this seem as little like an ambush as possible, so he is going to feign ignorance. It is a good thing Tony knows how to lie. He waits until after dinner, holding Steve back with a short, “Can I talk to you for a minute, Cap?” while everyone else filters out of the kitchen. In Steve’s back, Clint gives him a thumbs up, smirking like the little devil he is.

Steve has not moved from his seat, watching Tony with some wariness. That alone is amusing because what would their dear Captain have to fear from Tony?

Cradling a steaming mug of coffee, Tony sits back down and looks at Steve like he is a puzzle he cannot solve. That much, at least, is not really a lie. For all the stories he has heard about Captain America growing up, the person underneath is an enigma.

“What have you’ve done to Clint?” Tony asks, diving right into the matter at hand.

As expected, Steve’s eyes narrow in indignation. If Tony looks closely, though, there is a hint of shame also. “Why would I –”

“No excuses, Capsicle,” Tony cuts him off. He enjoys it perhaps too much to try to hold their leader morally accountable. It truly is an once-in-a-lifetime occasion. “You’ve been staring at him all evening as if you’ve kicked his puppy – which, by the way, would be called Lucky and eat us all out of pizza, so not cool.”

Steve _has_ been staring at Clint, which means that their argument cannot have been that long ago. In turn, that might mean that Clint was also the one calling their intervention meeting together. That is – surprising, to say the least. Clint has the patience of a saint where it comes to character flaws. Otherwise, he would never have managed to suffer Tony’s presence for as long as he has. Steve must have really hit a nerve. That thought has Tony sitting a bit straighter. He has become protective where Clint is concerned.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm him,” Steve says quietly, looking studiously at the surface of the table in front of him. That looks suspiciously like he feels guilty about how he asked, not that he asked in the first place.

“Overwh-” Tony asks sharply, but then decides that getting answers from Steve takes too long. “Oh, you tried to do your ‘tell me why your life sucks’ talk with him. I could’ve told you that would backfire.”

He cannot help the derision entering his voice. For all his life, people have been prying into his personal matters, he is used to it. Clint, on the other hand, has spent so much time making sure that his story remains buried. It is not that hard to figure out that direct questions from a co-worker will not actually lead anywhere.  

“Why?” Steve asks, sounding honestly curious as if he really cannot tell. Then again, he has not spent his life navigating social intricacies. If the stories are true, Steve Rogers, even before the serum, preferred to punch his way through problems rather than even attempt to talk. That might be a charming trait in a soldier, but Tony is still adamant that they are not that.

“Because,” Tony starts and decides that some honesty is in order, “Clint has never been his own person. He’s never owned his life. Not even now since Fury’s still breathing down our necks.” They have never talked about this, but to Tony it has been obvious. The better he gets to know Clint, the more determined he is to make things easier for him. “He has a chance now, though, but there you come and expect him to spill his story at your convenience.”

Of all of them, it is no surprise that this would hit Clint the hardest. Thor is a prince and a god, and he does not answer to anyone if he does not want to. Bruce is an expert in hiding and used to running circles around people. Natasha can be anyone she needs to be in a matter of seconds, but knows how to bring any unwanted conversation to an abrupt end. Tony himself knows this game and has been playing it since he was born.

Clint is a fighter, determined to make something better of his life than the mess he was thrown into. He also feels too much, though. Life has a habit of dealing out blows and he does not hide from them. He takes them and tries to turn them into something meaningful. Sometimes, however, life just hurts.

“I just wanted to get to know him better,” Steve says, quiet but still with that stubborn streak in his voice that tells Tony he has not understood anything yet.

“And you think the best way to go about this is to ask about the nooses around our necks.” Tony takes no satisfaction when Steve winces at that. He pulls his mug closer and stares contemplatively down at it. “Tell me,” he then continues in a conversational tone, “do you know what Clint’s favourite pizza is?”

Steve frowns but answers promptly. “Pineapple. He never shuts up about it.” With a hesitant smile he adds, “ _You_ never do either.”

Pineapple on pizza is a travesty, so Tony is not going to defend Clint’s life choices, but that is not the point he is trying to make. “Do you know why?”

Tony is not surprised when Steve shakes his head. He has not expected an answer. Most people like things because they taste good without any complicated reason behind it. Sometimes, though, life is trickier than that.

“He got into the circus because of his brother,” Tony says quietly, knowing there is more to the story than Clint ever told him. “Even though he was good with the bow, he was still the smallest and most useless person there, and they wouldn’t waste exotic food, not even the bad, canned stuff, on the runt of the company.”

Clint has never used these exact words, but it does not matter how many colourful stories he tells about the circus, he seldom mentions himself in them. Perhaps Tony is reading too much into that, but compared to the rest of the team, with the notable exception of Natasha, Tony has talked the most with Clint, and delved into territory they would never touch with strangers.

Steve does not say anything but keeps looking at Tony, waiting for something.

“You find out these things by talking about pizza,” Tony says simply, “not by going for the throat by asking why he’s messed up.”

Tony is going to have to apologize to Clint later for having used him as an example. If they want Steve to stop, Tony is going to do it the way he knows best, by reminding Steve that he is one of the good people.

For a while, neither of them says anything. Steve looks like he is thinking Tony’s words through, staring at his own hands. When he raises his head, he appears troubled.

“Why did you tell me about Afghanistan?”

That is not at all what Tony expected. He was prepared to defend his own assessment of the situation – people usually do not think him capable of rationalizing human emotions. But Steve taking what he has just been told and realizing he might have done more harm than good with all of them, and even looking concerned about Tony’s reaction, is certainly unprecedented.

“I didn’t tell you even half of it,” Tony admits, “and I’m not inclined to do so. Nobody knows. Not even Rhodey.” Only dead men, and Tony is happy to keep it that way. “But you don’t trust me,” he adds with a shrug, “and if I’d refused to talk to you, that would’ve just made it worse.”

Genuine distress spreads over Steve’s face, but Tony refuses to feel bad about it. They knew from the very beginning that living together would prove to be challenging. At least they are finally communicating instead of dealing out blows and hiding their pain.

“But you didn’t want to talk about it?” Steve asks slowly, a plea in his voice that Tony will not give into.

A chuckle falls from Tony’s lips as he shakes his head. Time for the kill, he thinks. “I’m sure you don’t particularly want to talk about the day Sergeant Barnes fell from that train either. Or how you crashed the Valkyrie while talking to Peggy.”

In front of him, all colour drains out of Steve’s face as he stares at Tony like he is seeing a ghost. Tony knows the feeling. It is like a sucker punch to the gut. One moment, they are sitting in their kitchen at home, the next it is as if they are thrown right back into the worst moments of their lives.

“How do you know about that?” Steve asks tonelessly, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that Tony fears for his furniture.

It really sucks to have other people know about one’s pain – but Tony does not say that. He is here to make things better, not to create new abysses between them.

“Peggy’s my godmother,” he explains, wondering how Steve could have missed that detail. He knows that Steve has been visiting her. “She used to tell me stories in which you were still human, contrary to Howard who always made you seem larger than life. I liked you in hers.”

Tony bites his tongue at that unwanted admission. Nothing good can come from telling Steve about the crush Tony used to have on him. Admittedly, a lot of children do, but Tony has always been closer to Captain America than most, considering who his father is.

Steve’s jaw is moving like he is mulling over what to say next, avoiding to look up. Tony gives him time. That is surprisingly easy, now that they are not constantly laying into each other anymore. Even though Tony does not exactly want to talk about his relationship with Peggy. That would inevitably lead to Howard and nothing good has ever come from that. Thankfully, Steve seems just as reluctant to pick up that topic.

“So,” Steve finally says, drawing out the word, “you’re saying I made everything worse again?” 

He sounds miserable, enough so that Tony is almost tempted to reach out. He does not know how to offer comfort to Steve, though, so he remains where he is. Words, however, he can do.

“With Clint?” he asks with a small smile. “He knew you were coming. He’s going to be back to normal in no time at all.” He is sure it does not need mentioning, but Tony still adds, “As long as you don’t ambush him again.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Steve says, not entirely convinced. “But I meant the whole team.”

Considering they called a meeting to discuss this exact thing, this is a tricky question. Tony does not let that show on his face, though. If they thought this was something unsalvageable or unforgiveable, they would not have gone the diplomatic route – as far as anyone can call it diplomatic to send Tony after Steve.

“I’m not the right person to talk about this. Pepper calls me emotionally unavailable,” Tony says with a grimace, trying to lighten the mood a bit. When Steve does not react, he turns serious again. “We’re trying. You, me, all of us,” he says firmly. “And I think we’re slowly coming together the way we’re meant to.”

“I hope so.” Almost too quiet to hear, Steve adds, “I want that.” Despite his sheer size and the ferocity he usually displays in any kind of conflict, he looks somehow fragile.

“All of us do,” Tony emphasizes, needing Steve to understand that. As hard as it might be sometimes, none of them is alone anymore.

Tony would have almost left it at that. The near crisis is averted, nobody yelled, they are good. Steve’s shoulders are still too tense, however, something hard in his gaze that does not let Tony get up and leave him like this.

“Now, Cap,” Tony exclaims, leaning forward with a half-smile, “was all your digging into our sob stories a hidden plea for us to ask about yours?”

He is not sure how tactful SHIELD’s introduction to PTSD and trauma has been, and whether Steve knows he can ask for help and should not hold back just because he is on a team of people who have never found a way to deal healthily with their issues.

“I don’t need –” Steve protests immediately, a hint of red creeping up his neck. “I mean, I’m fine.”

That is the first lie people tell when they are everything but fine. Denial can be the only thing keeping one from breaking apart. Sometimes things need to be broken, though, for something new to be built.

“Clint’s my support buddy,” Tony finds himself admitting. That came as a surprise – to the both of them most of all. He has Rhodey, too, but sometimes he needs someone closer to home, and Clint and he just fit. “But Natasha is a surprisingly good listener. She’s also not afraid to hit you over the head if our problems are easily solved. And sometimes without reason. I think she just likes hitting people.”

It is a strange thing that Tony knows these things. He, who has felt so lost such a short time ago. But if the Avengers managed to make him feel at home, they will surely manage with Steve too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says in the way people do when they want to appease others but have no intention of actually going through with it.

“I mean it, Steve.” Steve’s name feels foreign on his tongue for how seldom he uses it. That sensation distracts him from having been pushed into the role of comforting someone else. “You can come to any of us if you need to. And not everything has to be about Avengers business. We’re people first.”

When something in Steve’s gaze grows soft, Tony thinks he deserves a medal for that. He is also surprised by how much he means his words. This is not just this thing where he carries the support forward to the next person because that is what one does. He really wants Steve to do well, and to do well _with them_. Life in the tower is mostly good now, but Steve belongs to them too.

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says, looking if not entirely reassured at least less like he is going to snap.

Getting to his feet, Tony empties his by now cold coffee into the sink and refills his mug from the machine. “Thank me by keeping Thor from destroying another toaster,” he quips, “I like this one and he listens to you.”

Steve smiles at him, although it is a little weak. The gesture counts, though. “I’ll try.”

As he passes Steve, Tony briefly puts a hand on his shoulder, wondering whether that might be a bit bold. Steve’s lips curl up a bit more, so it might have been appreciated.

“That’s all we can ever do,” Tony says and makes a mental note to ask JARVIS when he has turned into a walking cliché, sprouting nonsense like that.

Well, he guesses it has served its purpose. And that is all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only place I can get wifi in this hotel is basically in the pool, so imagine me with my feet in the water, the sea in the background, sipping my drink, while I post this. Life is good!

 

They are doomed from the very beginning of the fight. Considering that they are facing a horde of doombots, Tony laughs inwardly at his own joke. Before he can put it out there for the rest of the team to appreciate, though, another one of the damned things explodes right in his face. Being hopelessly outnumbered apparently is not enough, they have to be flying bombs too.

Also, they are ugly. While that does not make them any harder to fight, it is hurting Tony’s eyes. He is used to smoother curves and softer edges. These doombots are all gangly limbs and dead eyes. It really ruins the aesthetic.

“Debris falling,” he calls as he tries to see whether anyone is below him and in danger of being hit.

“Perhaps don’t let them explode right above our heads,” Clint replies, sounding strained.

He, for one, is crouching more or less comfortably on a rooftop overlooking the whole, unamusing scene, where he can pick off the bots safely from afar. While he sees everything, he can hardly take out the bots closest to the rest of the team or he would literally cause friendly fire.

The Hulk shows himself unimpressed by the fireworks their enemies turn into seemingly at random. It even seems to motivate him to smash harder. Thor and Tony are causing havoc the best way they can, by being seemingly everywhere at once and doing the heavy hitting.

More problematic is the whole situation for Natasha and Steve. Close-range combat is rather ill-advised since they cannot pinpoint when exactly the bots are going to explode. Once they are down, yes, but some seem to come in for the sole purpose of blowing up. Natasha, at least, has the common sense to keep out of the way as best as she can, while sneaking in hits. No one has ever had success with telling Captain America to stay low, however, and the Avengers certainly have no more luck with that.

“Any progress with hacking into them?” Steve asks shortly.

When Tony glances down, he finds their leader ducking behind his shield but running right into the action. With a sigh, Tony concentrates on the readings on the HUD. He is letting JARVIS do most of the work so he can concentrate on the battlefield in front of him.

“Nope,” he replies with some dismay. “Doom’s getting better at this.” Normally, Tony would appreciate the challenge but he would prefer not watching his friends being blown to pieces at the same time.

“We should, too,” Steve remarks darkly. That is a little bit unfair, considering he does the least damage at the moment, but they are all frustrated. “This is taking too long.”

“You don’t say, Cap,” Clint cuts in. He seems to have developed a sixth sense for when Tony is going to lash out and is often kind enough to interfere.

Steve is right, though. It seems like more bots are swarming in with every passing minute. If only they could locate the source, and then take out enough to get themselves some space to _go after_ that source. As it is, they are fighting just to hold their positions and keep the collateral damage to a minimum.

“Any ideas?” Steve asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees him throwing his shield to chase a bot away from Natasha, leaving himself defenceless. Without thinking, Tony dives down and engages the two bots closest to Steve, pushing them away from him.

“Some,” Tony says in between repulsor blasts, “but you’ll like none of them.”

Most pressing would be to get out Natasha and Steve. They would never leave completely, but even guarding the perimeter would be safer than throwing themselves right into the thick of things.

Taking apart one of the bots would take too much time, but if Tony found out how they communicate with each other and how the explosions are triggered, it could help them immensely.

Then, of course, they could use an EMP. Tony favours that idea. They would just have to herd as many of the bots as they can together and take them all out in one strike. Since they cannot be sure that the bots will not still explode, even after being taken out with an EMP, it would have to be Tony. Other than him, only the Hulk would get out of the possible concentrated explosions intact, but as much as Tony has come to trust the Hulk in the field, it is certainly safer not to put an EMP in his hand and expect him to follow commands.

“Let me rephrase that,” Cap interjects Tony’s racing thoughts. Even in the mid of battle he sounds ready to launch into a lecture. “Does anyone have any ideas that won’t result in more property damage?”

That is one of Tony’s lesser concerns. At least one block has already taken a lot of damage, but they are in a scarcely inhabited area and the police was responsible for evacuating any civilians. JARVIS scanned the remaining buildings and found them empty. So, Steve’s argument might be noble but not actually that relevant. On the other hand, it means that Tony’s ideas are not that bad.

“And nothing that involves any kind of self-sacrifice,” Clint throws in, a warning in his tone.

Two well-aimed shots take care of another bot and Tony dodges the following explosion before he rises higher to take in the battlefield.

“We’re the Avengers,” he quips, not really thinking about his words, “we’re not going to be taken out by some trigger-happy robots.”

“It’s great to hear your increased team spirit,” Clint says, firing several arrows in quick succession, “but I was talking about you specifically, Tony.”

Tony would have answered. He might even have made some promises he would have hated to break later. That is when he sees a small group of bots approaching Clint. He takes out two but the rest keeps coming, not bothered by the exploding demise of their companions. Any closer and they will have Clint trapped up there.

Time to go all out, then, Tony decides. He flies in and quickly picks Clint up, firing at the remaining bots without looking. He trusts JARVIS to aim where it hurts the most. Then he puts Clint down on another rooftop and grips his shoulders, looking for wounds. He also means it as an apology in advance but he is not going to say that while he is still in range of Clint’s arrows.

“I need everyone to take cover,” Tony speaks into the comms as he rises back into the air. “J, keep trying to hack the bots.” He circles slowly in the air, cataloguing where each of their enemies is, running calculations and considering his odds.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, sounding suspicious. It does not matter, though, because he is too busy and too far away to do anything about it.

“I’m taking care of the problem.”

As soon as the last word is over his lips, dozens of small missiles are fired from the suit, hidden plates on his shoulders going up like hairs in his neck. Each of them hits a different bot, doing not enough damage to take them out, which would be fatal for their ground fighters, but it definitely attracts their attention.

“Everybody down,” Tony snaps when he sees that nobody has listened to him the first time.

Then he has no more time to track the motions of his teammates because the bots are coming after him, swarming to him like moths to a light. The first feeling of triumph gets washed out by the realization that the bots are faster than previously shown. Tony could still outrun them if needed, but that is not exactly the plan. He just needs them to follow him farther up and stay close together. Time to play catch.

The hardest thing will be to fire the EMP at the robots at a far enough distance to not take out the suit as well. This day is bad enough without adding a free fall out of the air and cardiac arrest to it. He has always hoped to go out against a more impressive foe than flying bombs with robotic limbs.

For now, he is spiralling upwards with measured speed, a trail of angry robots following after him. Looking down, he finds some stragglers still lingering, mostly around the Hulk. Since he is sure the Big Green can handle himself, Tony leaves them. Just when he is about to turn away, he sees another one getting close to Natasha.

“Widow,” he calls, “on your six.”

Tony is frantically trying to think of a way to get her out of there without putting her in more danger thanks to his entourage.

“I’ve got it,” she replies tersely.

There is nothing to duck behind, though, nothing to soften the blow if the bot explodes right in front of her.

“You have _not_ ,” Tony argues hotly. What is worse, he sees a blue blur coming closer. It is a wonder how Steve manages to fit himself behind his tiny shield, so there is no way he is going to be able to protect Natasha too. “Get down. Both of you.”

They will not, Tony knows them well enough for that. With a sigh, he flies a wide circle to not crash into the following bots and gets a bit lower.

“Let’s pick that bastard up, J,” Tony says and fires a grapple that pulls the bot towards him, limbs flailing. At least it has not reacted to the unexpected change of position with blowing up in Natasha and Steve’s faces.

With that, Tony turns back upwards, tailed by the horde of robots. Now he just has to get to a safe distance and find a place where he can let the debris and bodies fall without causing more damage. He takes it slowly, teasing the bots with missing repulsor blasts to make sure they do not lose interest in him. One good thing about the doombots is that they have not evolved far enough to recognize a trap even when they are running right into it.

“What are you doing?” Clint yells on the comms just as Tony flies out of sight of the other Avengers.

Stationed on the rooftop, there is no way that Clint will not be able to observe what is going to happen – which might be a good thing if Tony’s plan does not work out and the group of angry robots will go back to attack the team again. Still, Tony already prepares himself internally for a lecture about unnecessary risks. Although this one is necessary, if they want to get this over with any time soon and without filing up the medical ward in the tower.

Finally, when there is a ruin of a warehouse beneath him and no other building nearby, Tony decides this is it. He spins in the air, facing his entourage and gets ready to fire the EMP. What he has not expected is some of the bots clawing their way along the grapple line connecting him to the one he picked off Natasha. It makes them marginally faster than if they were just flying, meaning they are already close enough for Tony to see their various dents without JARVIS having to zoom in. Worse, the torso of one of them is already blinking, announcing that it is going to explode any second now.

Making a split-second decision, Tony changes direction to get higher into the air so he can see over the small group close to him at the rest following behind. In one smooth motion, Tony fires the EMP and cuts the grapple line, hoping he will be able to take care of all of them at once.

It looks like it is working. What has just now been a group of flying robots has quickly turned into a falling one. Bodies limp they tumble into each other on their way down. Tony is just about to give orders over the comms to keep clear of that warehouse, when one of the bots explode.

Either he must have not been in the radius of the EMP or the trigger mechanism is somehow protected. No matter the reason, before Tony can react in any way, he watches a catastrophic chain reaction right in front of him as the one explosion triggers the whole falling group to turn into an inferno.

The blast sends Tony reeling, eyes closed against the sudden brightness. Worse, the small group of bots that was hanging on the grapple line gets thrown forward at a faster pace than the Iron Man suit thanks to their lighter weight, making them collide directly with Tony. Of course, that is when the blinking bot decides to blow up himself.

Tony’s world bursts into flames. He feels himself spinning uncontrollably as the metal around him heats to almost unbearable levels.

“JARVIS,” he yells, barely hearing his own voice over the commotion.

If JARVIS answers, Tony cannot hear him. He blindly tries to activate the repulsors to stabilize himself in the air, but since he cannot tell what direction he is facing, that might just make matters worse.

Since his last crash, Tony has reinforced the suit, but even so, he already feels the pain. Anything other than a soft, or at least controlled landing, will only do more harm.

The smoke clears right in time for Tony to see the ground rushing towards him with unforgiveable speed. “J,” he tries again, but it is too late.

The crash punches the air out of his lungs and makes his vision go black.

The pain registers only long moments later, a distant thrumming inside his body, growing in intensity the more Tony clings to the sensation

Inexplicably, the first coherent thought Tony has when he opens his eyes in his freshly made bed of rubble, is to invest some time into further cushioning the suit.

“Sir,” JARVIS says, his voice holding both a questions and a warning.

The alarms flashing over the HUD give a good estimation why. He has to stop putting so much dents into his armour. Perhaps he has to stop crashing so readily too.

“Any broken bones?” Tony asks hoarsely. His mouth tastes like blood. It is probably not a good sign that he is not especially worried by that, but it is so familiar that it is barely worth thinking about.

“You re-fractured your right arm,” JARVIS replies with ringing reproach in his tone.

This will be annoying to deal with, especially considering that he barely escaped another fight with Steve about whether he should stay home when the alarm went off. This time, though, when it became clear that the situation was much more dire than the last time, requiring them going out in full strength, Clint had staunchly taken his side. Since Tony is reasonably sure that Clint’s leg has still been whole when he took off with the bots in tow, however, he can only imagine the disappointed speech coming his way from Clint and Steve both. Not that he wishes Clint would hurt himself just to prove a point.

“Great,” Tony groans, just barely managing not to wriggle his arm to test the truth of JARVIS’ statement. “What else?”

“Considering the recklessness of your stunt, you are surprisingly untouched, sir” JARVIS says as he pulls up Tony’s vitals on the HUD. “You have a number of abrasions as well as mild blood loss. Initial scans show no internal damages.”

Despite the pain, Tony’s lips pull themselves up. “The upgrades worked as intended then.”

“The better course might have been to not test them so soon after your last injuries,” JARVIS berates him calmly. With some delay, he adds, “Sir.”

If JARVIS is already getting sassy with him, Tony cannot be that bad off, even though it feels like every part of his body is on fire. He briefly considers to just keep lying where he is, but there must still be some doombots left on the field. If he ever insists on knocking himself out again, he should take care to at least take all their enemies with him. Otherwise, it is just a waste.

“Shall I reopen the comms?” JARVI asks.

That is when Tony realizes the silence from his teammates. He is glad that JARVIS apparently blocked communication sometime before or during his crash – because nothing good can come of the Avengers listening to that – but that also means that he has been incommunicado since they no doubt saw the sky explode. He is in for one hell of a lecture. If he does not talk to them soon, it will not make things easier.

“Do it,” Tony orders shortly and begins pushing himself to his feet. Concentrating on his teammates might be a good distraction from his pain.

“-on Man, report,” Steve’s voice sounds loud and clear in Tony’s ear. It is not as controlled as Tony is used to. Perhaps there are more doombots left than he initially thought.

“Answer, Tony,” Clint cuts in, also with obvious distress. “I swear, if you got yourself killed, I’m going to murder you.”

A small voice in the back of Tony’s head pops up and tells him that, possibly, it is not the fight the Avengers are worried about but him. After the past months, he should maybe not be so surprised by that idea. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

“I’m fine,” Tony says, putting as much conviction into the words as he can muster while manoeuvring himself into a sitting position without jostling his broken arm too much. JARVIS had warned him it was too soon to go out and apply full pressure on it – or brace another crash with it.

“Oh yeah, he’s using his bullshit voice,” Clint says, sounding angry all of a sudden. “What happened?”

Even though he knows he is only delaying the inevitable, Tony says with fake cheer, “I took care of the robots.”

Looking around, he at least does not find any intact bots around him anymore. The warehouse has been turned into a mass grave for Mr. Doom’s exploding mistakes. Some of them are still burning. Anyone scavenging for electrical parts will have a field day here later.

“What happened to you?” Steve takes over the interrogation, sounding just as displeased.

“Nothing. I’m all right.” Tony remains sitting where he is a moment longer and just concentrates on his breathing. He will get up any moment now. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

A blur of red closes in from the side and before Tony’s brain can catch up, Natasha is kneeling at his side. With her face blank, she reaches up and knocks lightly against Tony’s helmet. JARVIS opens the faceplate immediately, not giving Tony a chance to protest. He really has to do something about his tech rebelling against him.

“I’ve found him,” Natasha informs the others, taking Tony in critically. “He’s not all right.”

Irritated by her bold if correct assessment, Tony knocks her hands away as they slide down his face, wiping away some blood. He finally finds the energy to stand up, too, although his feet are not as steady as he wants them to be. Mostly, his whole body just cries out in pain.

Natasha makes a movement as if she wants to push him back down again. Then she thinks better of it and simply raises a hand to her ear. “He’s bleeding through the cracks of the armour.”

Traitor, Tony thinks but looks down at himself anyway. She is right, the suit has several cracks and there is some blood covering him. It is not actively flowing anymore, however, and JARVIS already checked for serious damage. He is just a bit banged up, nothing more.

“It’s just some scratches,” Tony says dismissively. He glares at Natasha, daring her to argue, which she looks more than ready for. “How’s the situation? Where do you need me?”

Baffled silence follows his question. Since one of them always has to say something, Tony almost thinks he has been cut out of the comms. He would not even be surprised if JARVIS took initiative like that, especially after how the last time Tony was wounded in the field and did not listen to reason turned out.

Then Steve’s voice comes back up, incredibly terse, “We’ll manage.”

Annoyance flickers over Natasha’s face, telling Tony she knows exactly that Steve chose the wrong approach to try to keep Tony off the field. Then again, there might not be a right one.

“I can –” Tony protests, taking one uncertain step forward.

“Tony!”

Tony is not sure what stops him in his tracks, Natasha’s hand on his chest plate or Clint’s voice, caught between warning and actual, undeniable concern. It is not so foreign anymore.

“You have fought bravely, Man of Iron,” Thor adds in, accentuated by the sound of Mjolnir swinging in the background. “Let us do our part now.”

A second later, the Hulk roars, and while it is improbable that he, too, is attempting to hold Tony back, he still joins the choir of common sense Tony sees himself confronted with. They do not know what they are saying, though. Tony has had worse. Once the pain passes, there is barely any excuse to sit out the rest of the fight.

“All right,” Tony says, barely believing the words coming out of his own mouth. With this admission, he nearly slumps back to the ground, all energy draining out of him. “I’m out,” he snaps, irritated with himself. “I’ll sit back and watch those bots blow you up. Happy?”

To add insult to injury, Natasha smiles at him, nodding as if he has done something right. If it would not look too defensive, Tony would have shut the faceplate so he can pull grimaces in peace.

“Yes,” Steve says. From the sounds of it, he is already engaging the rest of the bots. “Widow, get him out safely.”

Tony is so sure that Natasha will refuse since she is not one to flee from a fight either, that he already feels satisfaction welling up inside him. Then Natasha replies with a confirmative, though, and gestures in the direction of the quinjet.

“You –” Tony narrows his eyes at her when she simply waits for him to comply. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he then barks into the comms. “Even if I couldn’t manage on my own, JARVIS can help me.”

There is no answer other than Natasha taking a step forward. She does something with her face that makes her look younger, almost vulnerable even.

“We talked about this,” she says quietly, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Without wanting to, Tony slightly slumps against her. “Do you trust us?”

Tony pauses for a long moment, thinking that this situation has nothing to do with trust. He took a hit, but he could keep going easily. Being an Avenger means not to abandon the rest of his team just because of a few scratches. The fight is dying down, though, and he _is_ hurting all over.

Looking around them again, Tony sees the sheer number of doombots he has taken out, or the broken, melted parts of them that remain. It is not that he believes the rest of his team cannot take care of the rest of the enemies. It is more that he does not want them to think he is bailing, that he cannot pull his weight. Perhaps he has done his part, already. Perhaps they are truly just worried about him and he is not making anything easier by being stubborn.

“We’ll have a conversation about appropriate measures later,” he says because he would not be Tony Stark if he stopped being contrary. “For now get me out of here.”

Ignoring Natasha’s smug smile, he falls into step next to her, not commenting on them going slower than necessary. Now that he has been convinced that he can rest soon, he feels the exhaustion creeping into his bones. Natasha just steps closer, bearing some of his weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I have no idea how to write action scenes, so sorry for that. I hope I didn't do too badly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for your kind words and for making me continue this story.

Tony wakes up to his team bowing over him. He does not remember passing out or falling asleep but he feels the exhaustion deep inside his bones, now that the remaining adrenaline from the fight has ebbed away. The medics have also insisted on checking him thoroughly, no matter that JARVIS already scanned him. The constant beeping of the heart monitor has become almost familiar, even soothing, by now, and he has become used to the occasional irregular beat.

Even before he tries to sit up, he notices that his arm is in one of those horrible casts again, making him feel immediately constrained. When he shifts to glare at it, Clint laughs, somewhere over him. Right, he is not alone.

“I can’t believe you broke your bloody arm _again,_ ” Clint exclaims, not bothering to hide the schadenfreude lingering in the edge of his smirk.

He is perched on the side of Tony’s bed, back resting against the wall, so that Tony has to crane his neck to look at him. Behind him, Natasha sits on a visitor’s chair, her bored expression too intense to be completely true. On the other side of the bed, Steve stands next to Thor, frowning at the heart monitor. He has a scratch on his forehead that nearly visibly knits itself together. Supersoldier healing is something to admire, truly.

They are all still in their combat clothes, looking dusty and tired but not like anyone forced them to be here. As far as Tony can tell, the concern on their faces is honest.

“That’s what happens if you don’t give a fracture enough time to heal,” Bruce says with distinct displeasure in his tone. He stands at the foot of the bed, not looking up from Tony’s chart.

Tony’s mouth opens to protest the violation of his privacy – and therefore the display of his weakness – but he thinks better of voicing it. If Natasha had not dumped him right in the medical ward of the tower, he would have gone to Bruce’s lab. No matter how often Bruce says that he is not that kind of doctor, they all trust him to patch them back up. Tony is no different, although he naturally prefers to take care of himself.

“It was healed,” Tony says instead, noticing the petulance in his tone. It always annoys him when his body gives him problems like this. “JARVIS showed me the scans.”

Now Bruce does look up, but his eyes are so full of condescending pity that Tony wishes he would have been ignored. “But the new bone is nowhere near strong enough to withstand extended force.”

Tony knows that. In theory, at least. It is just easier to expect his body to withstand whatever he is putting it through than worrying beforehand and doing a mediocre job because of it.

“You say that as if breaking bones has somehow been part of my plan,” Tony mutters and finally sits up, testing how much he can move the arm without being in pain.

“ _Not_ breaking any certainly hasn’t,” Clint says and pushes him back against the cushions, leaving his hand on Tony’s shoulder to keep him from struggling.

To his own surprise, Tony lets it happen. There is something calming about the closeness of his team that he never thought possible. How far they have come from the bickering ragtag group they have been not so long ago.

The moment Tony relaxes, Clint’s grip tightens as he shifts his position to face Tony. His face is everything but amused. 

“While we’re on the topic of plans,” he says with the kind of calm that gives way to something far more sinister, “Why do you have an EMP stashed in your suit? That’s like programmed suicide.”

Everyone is looking at Tony now, unblinking and stern, waiting for an explanation as if him carrying an EMP is actually a reason for concern – or surprising for that matter. He wonders if he can get away with telling them he protected the arc reactor against an attack like that – and he has, just not against the calibre of his own invention.

“It came in handy, right?” he says, without explaining anything. “So I’m not sure what you’re complaining about.”

He knows, he does. He is just still working on believing. Right here, they make it rather easy, though. Even Natasha’s eyes are crinkled around the corners.

“I’m complaining about you carrying a device that could take out the very thing that’s keeping you alive,” Clint says, far more serious than he usually is about anything.

Tony begins to regret telling them about the shrapnel closing in on his heart. Well, he has not explicitly told them, but they are too intelligent a bunch to keep something this big a secret from them for long.

He huffs, glancing down at the hand still holding tightly onto his shoulder, almost as if they expect him to run away. Even with all of his bones intact and enough coffee to negate the ever-present tiredness, he would not get very far. Not with these people after him.

“As if someone couldn’t shoot you with your arrows if they wanted to,” Tony says, rolling his eyes for good measure, although even that small movement hurts.

“The difference is,” Clint counters icily, “that someone would have to come close enough to –”

Oh, that is rich. A sneer comes automatically on Tony’s face as he interrupts Clint. “To get an EMP out of the hidden weapon stashes in my very protected metal suit?”

It has played out in his favour many times to be underestimated. During business deals and kidnappings and open fights. He is just Tony Stark, the playboy, the drunk, who inherited everything worthwhile about him from the great Howard. The Avengers should know better by now. He might be a civilian and most at home inside his workshop, but his contingencies have contingencies. He never does anything unprepared, and when he is knocked down, he gets back up and makes sure he is better prepared for the next time.

“He’s just saying it’s dangerous,” Bruce says calmly, always the mediator.

“Our whole life is dangerous,” Tony grumbles but nods at Clint as if he is accepting an apology that will likely never be voiced. “The rest of the fight went okay?”

They would not be here if not, Tony knows that, but it still rankles him to have left before everyone else. It is a matter of pride, of fear that old age is catching up with him. Also, strangely, he is worried about his team. They can take care of themselves and have won worse fights but it is still strange to quit halfway through and miss the end of it.

“You barely left any foes for us,” Thor answers, sounding satisfied by that more than miffed. Then again, prowess in battle, even if it is not his own, tends to make Thor very happy.

“We still didn’t get to the source, though,” Steve cautions, frowning as if it is a personal failing. For once, Tony does not feel as if the displeasure is aimed at him, even though he did not manage to hack the bots while on the field.

“Did you bring me one of the bodies?” Tony asks, sitting a little bit straighter. He does not need his second arm to solve this mystery.

Steve’s frown deepens. “We did,” he says slowly, “but we’ve locked it up for now. It can wait until you feel better.”

It is not as if Tony is seriously wounded. Apart from the re-fractured arm and some scraps and burns, he is fine. He did not even get a concussion this time, despite his rather inelegant crash. There is nothing impairing his brain function, nothing keeping him from getting back to work. He is not going to keep lying in this bed for even a minute longer than absolutely necessary.

“I’ll have a look at it tonight,” Tony says firmly, daring anyone to protest. He does not believe in letting work lie around untouched, and he does not fancy getting blown up again any time soon. This newest generation of doombots need to be dealt with sooner rather than later. 

“Nope,” Clint speaks up with the kind of certainty that sounds as if he knows something Tony does not. “You won’t.” Behind him, Natasha nods nonchalantly. She manages to make even that little gesture look vaguely threatening.

“And what, pray tell,” Tony asks with some bite in his tone, “is going to keep me from it?”

Tony should have guessed that his question would only feel like a challenge to Clint, whose grin contains an unholy amount of glee. His expression patronizing, Clint pats Tony’s shoulder.

“You’ll see,” he promises.

Tony knows him well enough by now to be scared. Before he can say anything, though, Bruce sets down the chart loud enough to draw their attention. He does not look chiding, but that can change quickly enough. That way, he often manages to keep them on their best behaviour without ever doing something concrete about it. Nobody likes disappointing Bruce – and that has nothing to do with the Hulk.

“We should go clean up now,” Bruce says, gesturing at all their soot-covered clothes. “Natasha, Thor, come to me afterwards. I’d like to have a look at those burns.”

Nobody protests.

As they slowly filter out of the room, Tony settles back in his bed and thinks about the craziness of having a team that cares. He has shied away from thinking of it in this term for weeks now, but they have all been here, have all voiced their concern after the crash. If he did not know better, he would have called Steve’s voice on the comms panicked when Tony first turned them on again. Perhaps, and he is increasingly readier to admit that, he does _not_ know better.

It is Rhodey all over again, too stubborn to stay away, slowly integrating himself in Tony’s life until it is impossible to separate them again. It is scary and brilliant and Tony really hopes it is also true. He cannot just watch this fall apart again.

When Tony looks up, he finds Steve still standing at his bedside, back a little bit too straight and face a little too tense. Here Tony thought he might escape a lecture this time around. They have made such progress lately, and he acted actually responsible out there.

Clint lingers in the door, a reassuring presence – _if_ Tony needed protection from Steve. The thought is nice, though. They share a _look_ , just one breath away from rolling their eyes at each other. With some effort, Tony keeps his face under control. He is almost sure by now that Steve means well.

After a few long minutes of silence, in which Steve looks at anything in sight, the bedsheet, the cast on Tony’s arm, the heart monitor, until he finally finds Tony’s eyes. He looks upset.

“You have to stop doing this, Tony,” he then says, quiet but urgent.

Tony is not quite sure what to make of the vehemence in his voice. Like this is personal and not a team thing. “You never call me Tony when you’re about to yell at me,” he answers lightly, testing the waters.

Something shutters in Steve’s eyes. A flicker of sadness crosses his face. “Why do you still expect me to yell at you at any given moment?” Steve asks, sounding upset. “We’ve been doing much better.”

They have, Tony is not denying that. He is a burnt child though, unable to just let go of his reservations. Bad experiences have that effect.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, but does not let go of his fake cheer. “It must be something in your face. Could be related to that glare.”

As if he is taking that as an order, Steve relaxes his face – or he tries to. His gaze is still too intense, and his lips too pressed thin. He is making an effort, though.

“I just want you to be more careful.”

In the safety of his mind, Tony can admit that Steve’s glare might have just been due to worry. Actual my-teammate-turned-friend-has-a-habit-to-endanger-himself-on-missions worry. He is believing the rest of the team’s concerns, so he is not sure what about Steve has him immediately expecting trouble for himself. Probably an unhealthy mix of experience and Howard’s teachings.

“I have the feeling we’ve had this conversation before,” Tony says, smiling because he is not yet sure an apology is warranted.

Before him, Steve’s posture sags, but there is also a small smile on his face. It immediately makes him look a hundred times more approachable. “Let’s face it, we’ll have it again too,” he says without amused resignation. “Some people just don’t learn.”

Tony shifts in the bed, looking down at the uncomfortable cast. He is definitely going to get rid of that thing as soon as he gets out of here.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, rotating his wrist and wincing when it stings. “Try me. Right about now I don’t have any desire to get knocked out of the sky again.”

Although, of course, the suit has been much better equipped to keep him safe this time around. Apart from a few scratches and the unfortunate re-fracture he did quite well. With a bit of tweaking, he might just make the suit completely explosion-safe. He just has to devise a trial program than none of his teammates will ever find out about. Or Pepper and Rhodey. Possibly not even JARVIS.

“That’s because the pain meds are wearing off,” Steve replies dryly, far more humorous than Tony would have expected. “As soon as you get the next dose, you’ll be denying everything you said just now.”

That might just be true, but progress has never been made by being overly cautious. His near-dying act and subsequent upgrades to the suit might just save Rhodey from suffering the same fate as him at some point. That is worth the discomfort and hospital visits.

“Maybe we should not give him the next dose them,” Clint pipes up from the door. Since it has become clear that Steve did not stay behind to lecture Tony, his posture has relaxed considerably. “Make him suffer like a regular human being.”

Despite himself, Tony has to grin. “I _am_ a regular human being,” he protest without any heat. “Don’t you always say I’m a civilian even? So, hush, don’t make things worse for me.”

A smile flickers over Steve’s face but is soon replaced by seriousness again. It is still a step into the right direction.

“Just – be safe, Tony,” Steve says, quiet but firm. He does not look away from Tony. “Don’t let me lose any more people I care about. Not if it’s avoidable.”

“You –” _care?_ Tony just barely manages to swallow the rest of the question, despite the incredulity rising in his throat.

He knows that Steve cares about saving people, and fighting bad guys, and being all proper and kind, and the team, and probably most of the individuals on the team. He did not know that Steve cares about him, even though he perhaps should by now. There it is, though, that softness on Steve’s face, unmarred by a frown, that small smile he reserves for quiet moments when the whole team is together – and all of it is directed at Tony.

“I’m sorry it took so long.” Steve looks like he wants to say more, but then his eyes flicker in Clint’s direction and his jaw settles into resignation. “Wait until the doctors release you this time.”

He does not wait for whatever empty platitude Tony would have come up with, but nearly runs from the room. A strange sadness fills Tony’s chest at that. They are dealing quite well, are almost even friends. Still, it sometimes feel like they manage to miss all the easy chances to change things for the better and have to wait for the dramatic all-or-nothing moments in life.

Tony wonders whether he would go after Steve if her were not hooked up to the IV line and heart monitor. Strangely, he does not doubt he would.

Before he can come to terms with this realization, Clint steps fully back into the room. His shoulders are hunched with unmentioned guilt. It does not take much effort for Tony to put a smile back on his face. Steve and his failings are no one’s fault but their own, and he will not let Clint assume otherwise.

“Are you a secret morphine addict or why do you want to withhold my next dose?” Tony jokes, and easily manages to pull Clint out of his musings.

“My only drug is takeout,” Clint shoots back instantly. His forehead is still slightly creased, but the banter comes natural to them. “Also don’t be so greedy. It’s not as if you’re going to let them give you any more of it either way.”

Following the IV line with his eyes to the saline bag that is mostly unnecessary too, Tony shrugs. “Pain meds make me slow.”

Clicking his tongue, Clint says, “Nothing can make you slow. You’re – _Tony_.”

“Wow, birdbrain, that’s a real compliment,” Tony replies, voice thick with sarcasm.

Inside, however, his chest seems to expand with the sudden joy overcoming him. He knows Clint sees him as a friend, and the feeling is reciprocated, but the open acceptance in Clint’s words is something else. He can be just Tony with so few people, and he is glad that Clint is among them now.

“You know,” Clint says, leaning against Tony’s bed, “after you talked to Steve, he apologized to me.”

That has been several days ago, so Tony was sure the matter is dealt with. Something in Clint’s tone is off, though. Not guilty, still, but contemplative.

“That is good, right?” he asks, wondering what he is missing. “I mean, that’s what you wanted, yes?

To his surprise, Clint shakes his head. “No. I wanted him to stop for a moment and think about what questions are all right to ask during a polite conversation between roommates.” Clint stumbles over that last description, so Tony knows that he does not think of them as just roommates anymore either. “I though he didn’t even know how to apologize.”

“It is a bit out of character, that’s true,” Tony quips. They grin at each other. None of Clint’s dark or bad moods last long. Neither is he made for holding grudges. “Then again, they still taught proper manners back in the forties.”

Sometimes, Tony wonders whether Steve knows that he might be a man out of time, but that it is just as strange for them to remember that he comes from so far in their past. They have all had history lessons, have all heard about the Great Depression and, of course, World War II. To have someone among them who has lived through all of that is something completely different however.

“Nope,” Clint grins, shaking off the last of his strange mood, “you can’t just rationalize that away. Captain America or not, _Steve Rogers_ apologized to me, after _you_ talked to him.”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised about my success,” Tony grumbles but does not fight his lips moving up. “It was your idea after all.”

“I’ve had JARVIS save the footage for me,” Clint goes right on, letting himself fall onto the bed next to Tony. “Do you want to watch it with me?”

Tony laughs. Pain spikes over the ribs of his right side where he bruised them during his crash. “You are ridiculous.”

“It’s like I’m dreaming. I still can’t believe it.” Leaning closer, Clint asks, “Pinch me?”

“Now that I’ll do with pleasure.”

Since Clint is sitting on his right side, however, he has ample time to dodge Tony’s left arm. He bellows a delighted laugh.

“J,” Tony says with deceptive calm even as he feels his grin turning shark-like, “please inform the bots that Clint is in dire need of some friendly pinching.”

“Oh no,” Clint calls, jumping to his feet as he gestures wildly at the ceiling to stop JARVIS from following a direct order. “I’m awake, I promise. No help needed.”

“DUM-E and Butterfingers are happy you trust them with such a vital task,” JARVIS supplies helpfully, and even someone not familiar with the nuances of his speech could hear the open amusement in his voice.

“Call them off,” Clint pleads. The effect of that is ruined when he glares at Tony just moments later.

“Too late, Barton,” Tony says with a smug smile, “it’s on. You better hope your acrobatic skills are good enough to run from two overeager bots.”

“You win, Stark,” Clint says with petulance as he turns towards the door. “I’ll watch the video alone, while I hide from your murder bots.”

Making a show of leaning back into his cushions, Tony reminds him, “There’s no hiding from JARVIS. Good luck, though. This’ll be a video I’ll gladly watch.”

Dashing out, Clint flips Tony off over his shoulder, but there is no mistaking the grin on his face. They all enjoy a little bit of excitement from time to time, and Clint loves playing hide and seek, especially because he usually wins. With JARVIS aiding the bots, the odds are firmly stacked against him.

“Call them off in half an hour or so,” Tony tells his AI.

He is strangely content with how this day has turned out, even with him getting blown up again. It is the small things that turn the big picture beautiful. And he is beginning to look at a masterpiece.

 

* * *

 

The sun has not yet completely set when Tony gets fidgety. While he has slept most of the afternoon, thanks to exhaustion, pain and various meds, he is now wide awake and ready to go. He had JARVIS inform the doctors half an hour ago to come in, but as of yet, he has been ignored. It is only due to his almost promise to Steve that he has not simply vanished to his own floors as he usually does. His patience is running out, though.

Just when he has gotten rid of the electrodes of the heart monitor and the IV line, the door is thrown open and in come Clint and Natasha. Well, he supposes it is Clint but cannot be sure since he is hidden behind a giant bouquet of colourful flowers – which he unceremoniously dumps on the small table next to Tony’s bed.

“You brought me flowers?” Tony asks dumbly, unsure how to handle the situation. There are more pressing matters, like what they are doing here and whether they are going to hinder him from breaking out.

“Nope,” Clint chimes up, grinning like a fool. “Those are for the unfortunate nurse who is going to find you missing and has to report to your doctor.”

Natasha, meanwhile, looks over the rest of the medical equipment and checks whether Tony has turned off all the alarms. He _has_. This is not his first rodeo, after all. Then she loosens the break of the hospital bed.

“And where am I going missing to?” Tony asks, realizing belatedly that they are not going to make sure he stays where he is but help him get out. He does not exactly need that help, but he appreciates the gesture. 

“Home, of course,” Clint answers easily as he takes position at the front of the bed.

“I am home,” Tony argues, although he is quite happy to follow wherever they are going. “In case you forgot, this is still my tower.”

Natasha flicks his ear, not amused by his antics. “We mean _our_ living room,” she says, then makes a sharp gesture with her hand. “And now silence.”

In a completely exaggerated move, Clint slowly opens the door and looks down the hallway in both direction to see whether they are clear. Then he resumes his place and together they move Tony’s bed out of the room. They make it down the hall and past the deserted nurse station to the elevator. Once the doors open for them, Clint cannot control his giggling enthusiasm anymore and, whooping, they escape upstairs.

The short ride to the Avenger’s floor feels a bit anticlimactic, giving Tony time to think about what is happening.

“I can walk, you know that?” he asks and makes to get up, but Natasha pushes him back down by his shoulders without deigning to answer. Still, Tony protests, “I’ve got a broken arm, nothing else.”

Clint turns around and grins at him, the expression clearly patronizing. “You’re on bedrest, though. Doctor’s orders.”

As if Clint has ever listened to anyone telling him how to handle his injuries either. Before Tony can comment on that, the elevator doors open and they are moving again. It becomes quickly obvious that they are not bothering with secrecy now anymore, because Clint walks around the bed to join Natasha in Tony’s back. It does not feel strange anymore to have the two spies so close to him without seeing what they are up to.

Then again, he knows them well enough by now to at least wager a correct guess at what Clint is doing most of the time. Natasha will forever remain an enigma, but he does not mind that as much anymore. These days, he his mostly sure he will not end up with one of her knives in his back. Not without provoking her first.

“Don’t you dare race down the hallways,” Tony says sharply, hearing Clint’s giggle as much as he feels them picking up speed. “I’ve just renovated.”

He has no illusions that he will have to do so again soon. With the Avengers around, things get broken, no matter whether it is due to Thor’s over-enthusiasm or an escalated food fight. Life is never boring around here.

They do not slow down even one bit when Clint argues, ““I’m – insulted that you think I would do such a thing.” If that is the most innocent tone he can muster, it is a good thing they do not rely on him to handle politicians and the press.

“You planned to, admit it,” Tony shoots back. He will never concede that he enjoys the ride.

Behind him, Clint laughs shortly. “You can’t prove anything.”

When they reach the living room, someone has already pushed the couch and table to the side, making more than enough room for Tony’s bed. Once they are there, Natasha vanishes without a word. They are all following some kind of plan, because Clint makes sure that the bed is facing the TV at the right angle without further ado.

When he comes around into Tony’s point of view, he explains, “Bruce is taking care of the snacks, while Steve and Thor get more beds. Nat is responsible for pillows and blankets.”

“You got Steve to agree to this too?” Tony asks, incredulity making him sound reluctant.

Clint, however, only shrugs, his grin never wavering. “We told him the doctors agreed to us taking you out as long as you keep resting.”

As if any evening with the Avengers could ever be truly restful. Warmth spreads through Tony’s chest as he realizes the extent of this sudden impromptu team night they have come up with – and that, surely does more than enough for his healing.

“And he believed that?” Tony still asks with open scepticism. Steve might be slow where it comes to social interactions, but he is not exactly that naïve.

Suppressed laughter bubbling in his voice, Clint explains, “Bruce told him, and Natasha backed him up.” He shrugs good-naturedly. “No one would dare to accuse those two of lying.”

Certainly, no one with a death wish or a complete lack of heart – since disappointing Bruce feels like getting stabbed several times.

Despite all the laughter and joy spreading through him, Tony cannot deny the small tendril of hesitation curling in his gut. “Why would you –” he asks but trails off when Clint glares at him.

“We’re not going to let you miss movie night just because of a scratch,” Clint explains with some vehemence, allowing no argument. “We decided on Disney movies, since the doctors said you should stay away from anything too exciting for a while.”

Despite Clint’s tone, despite being entirely happy with where he is, Tony thinks a long moment about protesting, about getting up and hiding away in his workshop as he has done for so many years when he was hurt. He is not befuddled by pain medication, nor does he distrust them, so there is no valid excuse to want to flee. Old habits die hard, though.

With a smile, Tony makes his decision, hoping that he will have to make it for the last time. Settling more comfortably in his bed, he quips, “Says the guy who nearly fell of the couch last time we watched Brave.”

Clint must have known what Tony was thinking, because only now do the last creases in his face smooth over, giving way to a completely honest grin.

“It’s a nice movie,” he says, full of cheer. “You’re just jealous they don’t have anything about a flying robot yet. Tapping lightly on Tony’s uninjured shoulders, he adds, “Now, scoot over. I kinda miss hospital beds, so I’ll share with you. This is way too nice for you to keep it all to yourself.”

Before Tony can do anything but stare gobsmacked, Clint has already climbed onto the bed, pushing Tony until he makes room. Within seconds, they are both beneath the blanket and Clint sighs contentedly.

Tony is not sure whether Clint is only doing this for his benefit, to prove a point or something, but he finds he does not care. Clint seldom does something if he does not want to, and this does not feel out of place.

“Don’t you dare cuddle with me,” Tony threatens lightly, unable to suppress the warmth in his voice. At the same time, he relinquishes more of his pillow so Clint can be more comfortable. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Clint says as he snuggles closer with exaggerated sighs of appreciation until Tony is left with an armful of him, finding he does not want to be anywhere else. He does not mind that the rest of the team is going to find them like this. More so, he would be all right with all of them joining them too.

“I’ll get crumbs all over you,” Tony warns, just to have to say something so he does not have to think too much about the happy feeling constricting his throat.

“It’s your bed,” Clint replies, sounding like he does not have a care in the world. “You’ll have to sleep in them.”

Smiling, Tony says, “You’re the worst.”

And Clint does not miss a beat to say, “Love you too, Tony. Now shut up and scratch my head.”

Laughing, Tony has no other choice but to run his hand through Clint’s hair, causing the archer to preen. Sometimes, it is hard to believe how crazy they all are. If given a choice, though, Tony knows he would not want to be anywhere but here. After months of struggle and doubt, he is finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, this is it! I mean, I've said that before, so you know I tend to change my mind if pushed, but I feel pretty good about this story as it is right now!  
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos, for sticking with me.  
> I wish you all the best. Love you 3000!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Tell me what you think.


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